14 Small Cards

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“The chaos is the ladder to ascend.”* Ram and Karl said this while chatting on the plane.

On the way to Berlin, Ram took Karl along. Although Ram was only a few years older, he appeared remarkably mature and composed, looking less like an athlete heading off to represent his country and more like a businessman on a routine trip. Karl, despite seeming mature beyond his years, couldn’t help but lean against the window to gaze outside or watch the flight attendant demonstrate how to wear a life vest with intense focus, only to turn to Ram afterward and admit he hadn’t remembered a thing.

Buying Karl the window seat was a wise choice, Ram thought casually. He even planned to order orange juice or sweetened milk for Karl, imagining Karl would probably opt for plain mineral or sparkling water but likely preferred something sweet after all.

Ram did not hide the influence he exerted over Karl’s induction into the team. Though he himself was still young and under normal circumstances shouldn’t have swayed someone as significant as Klinsmann, he had. Many things in life defy logic.

The turmoil in the German national team was always closely tied to that at Bayern Munich, never separable. The year before Klinsmann took charge was the most chaotic for Bayern. First, Rummenigge was finally promoted to chairman of the board (CEO), ousting longtime incumbent Jürgen Koller, taking over the club’s overall operations and strategic decisions.

His ascension triggered personnel changes within the club, inevitably accompanied by turbulence and scandal. Though in the 02-03 season Bayern swept the Bundesliga wearing white away kits that looked like a Real Madrid cosplay, led by Ballack with a graceful style praised as “white ballet,” they faltered on the European stage.

Matthäus’s critical column in Sport Bild about his former club enraged Hoeneß, who publicly declared, “As long as Rummenigge and I are here, he won’t even be allowed to be the groundskeeper.”

Disheartened, Matthäus canceled his honorary membership with Bayern and even returned his farewell gift. Months later, he sued the club for unpaid farewell match earnings of 500,000 euros, putting Hoeneß directly under fire. Yet Hoeneß remained unmoved, as if saying the world was a living hell and those who thrived were devils in charge—who feared a little fire?

The more Matthäus raged, the sounder his sleep.

Meanwhile, negative news surfaced about Lizarazu, Kahn, and Kuffour, with unclear origins—whether internal leaks or backstabbing. Beloved old coach Hitzfeld was even caught in a scandal and forced to admit to an extramarital affair.

Across Europe’s football scene, stars prided themselves on the image of devoted family men—loving husbands, doting fathers. German players, bound by traditional values, especially so, marrying and having children early as a badge of reliability.

Engels once remarked:

“French novels mirror Catholic marriage; German novels mirror Protestant marriage. In both, ‘he gets something.’ In German novels, the youth gets the maiden; in French novels, the husband ends up cuckolded.”

“Which situation is worse is not always clear. Therefore, the dullness of German novels to French bourgeois readers is as chilling as the ‘immorality’ of French novels is to German philistines.”*

Marriage was like that: kissing at the altar and pretending everyone has purity and true love was simple; living together, raising children, dividing assets involved far more complications.

The collapse of the ideal marriage image, especially on a collective scale, epitomized chaos. When the team played well, no one cared about players’ private lives unless they broke the law. Chaos meant personnel changes. Ram seized this opportunity to enter the first team. Without much persuasion from above, after his own planning and consideration, he was loaned to Stuttgart.

It was an absolutely correct decision.

He was eagerly recalled, returning to an even more stable, higher, and better position—not only staying at Bayern but signing a new, substantial contract.

And if Karl could seize his current opportunity, he might not have to go on loan but be directly promoted to the first team.

“So don’t be too nervous,” Ram smiled at Karl. “The national team might seem unstable; Mr. Klinsmann has a terrible temper and snaps easily, but for you, it’s purely a good thing.”

Karl understood. Though unsure how to express his gratitude for Ram’s help and candid mentorship, he looked at him with earnest blue eyes. Ram playfully covered his eyes with his palm, shaking it teasingly:

“Alright, don’t make it so serious. I’m not helping you for any extra gain, Karl. Your presence alone is valuable. I need reliable teammates, and I know you are—both on and off the pitch.”

“This isn’t flattery, a threat, or a command to obey. I’ve known you for many years—probably longer than you’ve known me. I know you have great character. This might sound boastful, but I’m quite good at reading people.”

Ram turned to the flight attendant and took a cup of sweet milk for Karl:

“And you’ll find I’m the kind of person you’ll like—then naturally we’ll become good friends. That’s a much sturdier and more comfortable relationship than ‘I help you’ or ‘you listen to me.’”

Ram winked warmly and mischievously, chuckling at his own “self-praise”:

“Drinking this is a bit odd. If we had more time, we’d sit in some restaurant and at least toast with beers—but time waits for no one. Come on, Karl, congratulations on joining the national team.”

Karl couldn’t help but smile: “Thank you, Philipp. I’m already starting to like you…”

He wasn’t joking. Ram was quite different from the cute but naive Müller or Kroos, or the older but sometimes reliable and teasing Neuer. Ram was smart and perceptive, noticing things others missed and making reasonable deductions. But he wielded this skill deftly, neither hurting others nor himself—while Karl often doubted if he was overthinking.

He had always considered this sensitivity a burden, like an allergic reaction to the world, noticing every tiny crack and pain. Yet in talking with Ram, he suddenly realized it was an unrecognized form of wisdom.

That feeling was wonderful.

He neither felt inferior nor arrogant but saw a better version of himself reflected calmly and genuinely in another. It was as if he had stepped away from his old environment and mindset, truly beginning to become an adult—and he was far better than his previously constrained self-image.

Originally tense about traveling to the national team with a senior he knew but not well, and who was only a few years older, Karl now relaxed naturally.

When everyone else saw him as a nervous kid standing in the corridor in the way of Ballack, only Ram came over and greeted him, “Hey, Karl! Remember me?”

At this moment, when everyone probably thought he was a joke cooked up by a fevered Klinsmann’s mind, a tiny kid no one took seriously, only Ram treated him as an equal adult.

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That feeling was truly good.

Karl grew increasingly confident. After their serious talk, they played a simplified chess game on the plane, which was surprisingly entertaining without a TV. They chatted joyfully about old and current Bayern stories, laughing and teasing each other about how long it had been since they last played and the strange moves they made, before happily heading off to report upon landing.

When it came time to introduce Karl, Ram presented him to everyone, and Karl, imitating an adult, looked each staff member in the eye and earnestly introduced himself. The reception was excellent; everyone smiled at him and treated him with far more respect and friendliness than he had imagined, as if he’d been part of the team all along. He remembered many names, quickly developing a sense of belonging.

Best of all, here he wasn’t an awkward outsider; he had always been part of Bayern, and the national team had many Bayern players.

After dropping off their luggage, they sat in a hall used as a players’ lounge. The national team captain Ballack was half-reclined on a sofa’s backrest, propping himself up with his hands while chatting with those behind him. Though awkward for conversation, it looked handsome and casual, and allowed him to meet the eyes of anyone who entered.

But Karl only caught a fleeting glance of his gray-blue eyes, which seemed clearer than on the pitch. He first noticed a strange scar on Ballack’s chin before being suddenly enveloped by a huge, unexpected hug from a giant “little pig.”

“Ah, our little Karli! Wow, you’ve grown taller, but you still look so small. Look at your face—you’re still a baby! Philipp, see? He’s still a baby, right? Was I this small when I joined? No way, no way. Oh, were you scared when you got the call? If I hadn’t had to change my ticket yesterday, I would’ve come with you today… Philipp, are you hungry? Have you eaten? Karli, do you want something to eat?”

“I’m okay, we’ll eat together tonight. But if there’s dessert, I’ll get some.”

Ram made no move to save Karl and laughed, going around behind them to hang up his coat.

Neuer.

Karl was hopelessly squeezed but was certain Schweinsteiger was his new Neuer in life.

“Less cliquey,” Ballack said like a team boss, not friendly at all, casually smacking the billiard ball he was juggling into Schweinsteiger’s back: “A new guy’s here, shouldn’t you greet everyone properly?”

Schweinsteiger yelped, rubbing his back. Karl hastily rubbed his own face like a little otter trying to recover. Schweinsteiger wasn’t angry, though, and laughed, switching to standing sideways with his arm around Karl’s shoulder:

“Alright, alright, say hello to our captain—Michel, you know him, you only lost to him once this year—Ow! Don’t hit me anymore, my head’s going dumb!”

Karl finally got a good look at Ballack’s eyes—gray-blue, clear. He shook Ballack’s hand. Ballack studied him a moment, then grasped his fingertips warmly, shook them lightly, released, snorted, and sneered:

“So you can talk, huh?”

He didn’t seem to like me.

Karl felt slightly troubled, unsure why Ballack’s tone was sarcastic.

Schweinsteiger kept his arm around Karl, leading him forward. Next was Kahn, who though had been devastated by Karl’s last-minute winner in the German Cup—kneeling on the pitch yelling as if to shatter three panes of glass—still told the media afterward Karl was a talent worth nurturing and should join the team. Now he was friendly.

Though teasing Karl about how slick his hair looked, like a little girl, slapping his hand twice as a warning, he burst out laughing when Karl’s hair stood on end with static like his own. He pulled Karl close, tousled his hair, kissed his forehead, then let go:

“Looks good, go play!”

Schweinsteiger helped Karl press his hair down, laughing so hard tears nearly came:

“Oh God, Oliver, you’re just jealous Karl looks young and pretty! But you can’t be like this!”

“Bullshit! I’ve spoiled you rotten,” Kahn said roughly, kicking Karl’s backside.

Schweinsteiger groaned in pain: “Baby, after this tour, I’ll need a stretcher… Quick, carry me, quick…”

Karl helped him up, but Schweinsteiger just laughed.

“This is bad,” he told everyone. “I suddenly recall I used to be a pure and lovely kid too, but since joining the first team, you’ve all corrupted me. I’m so sad I almost cried… Ow, don’t hit me! Karl’s here, don’t hurt me! He has no pants on, so pitiful! Give him some pants! I’d be dead if I got hit here, really…”

“Nonsense!” many jeered him. “Don’t think you’re not the youngest so you can rewrite history. You were a troublemaker right from the start; we’ve all spoiled you!”

Schweinsteiger whispered seriously to Karl: “Slander, all slander, don’t listen.”

Karl laughed, eyes bright, as Schweinsteiger fussed over him again.

Besides Bayern’s elder brothers who dared to hit him, everyone else was friendly and polite. The team was truly youthful now. Though Karl was still notably young, he was far better off than being the awkward seventeen-year-old in a room full of thirty-year-old men’s poker. With Schweinsteiger as a lively presence beside him, he felt comfortable, happily squinting as he listened to their chatter over dessert.

Podolski arrived late, but not late to the gathering—he and Schweinsteiger had arrived in Berlin yesterday but apparently napped and now entered looking weary. The warm welcome made him feel slightly out of place, especially since he usually would sit right by Schweinsteiger and joke around, but now Schweinsteiger was busy with Karl, telling Bayern youth academy jokes:

“I really didn’t want to be late. I barely climbed over the fence, and Karl was right below picking up balls, staring blankly at me saying: ‘Pants, hole, no, brother, your shorts have a big hole…’”

“I cursed, looked down to check my underwear—did he see anything? Thankfully, the underwear was intact, but the shorts really had a huge red hole, fluttering on the highest wire fence like a flag. Then I saw lots of people pointing and shouting at the coach, who charged toward me like a red bull snorting—You can’t imagine how angry he was. If Karl hadn’t been hugging the ball crying, saying, ‘Don’t hit him! He has no pants, poor thing! Let him wear pants!’ I’d have been beaten on the spot, really…”

Everyone burst out laughing, tears nearly streaming. Even the usually stern Ballack smiled faintly, leaning against the wall sipping water, as if catching a glimpse of two childhood fools behind Karl’s face covered in laughter and Schweinsteiger’s reddened grin.

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Schweinsteiger seemed utterly unaware Karl had arrived.

Ram spotted him immediately and waved: “Lukas!”

“Ah, look who it is—our Poldi prince is here!” Schweinsteiger spread his arms, happily greeting him: “Did you have a good nap?”

Silly pig.

Podolski suddenly flared up without reason.

Karl shook hands and got to know him. Podolski seemed shy but had a tough temperament, quite unlike the gentle, fatherly Klose, who also had Polish roots. Podolski seemed to prefer speaking only with Schweinsteiger, and soon they were whispering together, leaving Karl unbothered. He couldn’t imagine a more perfect first day on the national team.

At dinner, he met head coach Klinsmann for the first time. Klinsmann deliberately scanned Karl with a scrutinizing gaze, making him nervous. Fortunately, the appraisal was favorable—Klinsmann beamed, patted his shoulder, saying he looked sturdier than on tape and encouraged him to eat more meat to keep growing strong.

Schweinsteiger asked, “Should I bulk up too?”

Klinsmann smacked his behind: “Bulk up? Even the piglets can’t grow like you!”

Laughter erupted around the long table.

Dinner conversations were relaxed and chaotic. Groups chatted and joked in clusters. Karl overheard Frings and Klose teasing Ballack about the scar on his chin—had he partied too hard last night? Ballack snapped back angrily that he hadn’t.

Did teammates think Ballack was a mess? Not surprising. Though his private life was surprisingly clean of scandals, his appearance and aura—sweaty and shirtless—drew many female fans desperate to buy illicit photos of small Karl’s hormones. He didn’t look like a lonely man.

He was probably just good at public relations but quite the womanizer. A quarter of Bayern’s fans were youth, all convinced of his secret girlfriends—some singers, some actresses, some models, even themselves (?).

Clearly, fans making couples and daydreaming about their idols was a heartfelt instinct, unrelated to eras.

To Karl’s left was the adult channel; to the right, talk of investments. Kahn was sharing his stock market experience, while young defenders Mertesacker and Metzelder listened with puzzled faces. Moments like these made Karl realize he still wasn’t mature enough. If he sat with Müller and Kroos, they’d be joking and having more fun.

But quietly listening while eating was enjoyable too. Karl had eaten a lot of sweets today. The chef had heeded Klinsmann’s advice to add more meat and winked at him, making Karl smile. He even tried unfamiliar food, not too tasty, but out of respect for not wasting, he finished it.

Suddenly, Ballack seemed to spit something out, and Klose sighed:

“Isn’t this the dish you couldn’t stomach before? Why so distracted? If you don’t like how it’s made, you could have asked for something else.”

“…I didn’t.”

Karl thought again: Not only does he dislike me, but his personality isn’t great either!

After dinner was movie time. Klinsmann had a bit of humor—since their first opponent was Australia, he showed them an Australian film to “get to know the enemy” and familiarize themselves with English so they could understand insults during the game. But the film he picked was the classic anti-war romantic drama The English Patient.

Everyone was curious whether Klinsmann really distinguished English and Australians in his mind (…).

The film had hardly any swear words, only tender lines and a deeply sorrowful story. Its artistic quality was high, winning many awards. Such art films remained beautiful after years of refinement. Karl felt like he was back in less stressful training days, watching films together in class, writing reviews. Those were beautiful memories, though distant now. Football and everything about it fully consumed his life. Pulling back, he realized life beyond football was also nice.

It held unique gentleness and freshness. Life was complex, rich.

Yet most people nearby couldn’t focus, talking and playing. Karl saw Ballack in the front row, resting on his wrist, motionless. He guessed Ballack was asleep.

“Every night I cut out my heart. But in the morning it was full again.”

If awake, Ballack would hate such lines—too sentimental, uncontrollable, even pitiful. People like him, always cool and impatient, would sneer, Karl thought.

He watched seriously, probably because he liked it. Ram asked if Karl was interested in love. Karl shook his head.

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. Maybe love is too extravagant, can’t be forced, not really something to be interested in… Love is like… God’s lottery.”

Ram smiled, turning to look at him. His beautiful eyes flickered with the screen’s glow in the dim room. Curious about his thoughts, Karl asked:

“Don’t you think so, Philipp?”

“Love’s more like being pushed by God… Love is falling.”

In the tactical room with the movie playing, Ram said this to Karl.