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In 2005, recalling the young Lahm’s time.

Because this round of the German Cup was against their own reserve team, Bayern’s first team felt completely relaxed—it was basically a freebie!

A top-tier team playing against its own reserves was like a father playing against his son, a cat toying with a mouse, an easy catch in a jar—something utterly one-sided.

Whether in age, experience, skill, or the reserves’ awe-struck attitude when facing the first team, they had no real competitive edge whatsoever.

Two days before the match, the first team’s coach, Magath, even gave them a break to rest and adjust; most starters were rotated, leaving only the goalkeeper and captain, the so-called “Golden Lion King” Kahn, to start.

This should have been good news, yet it put Kahn in a foul mood.

“What use am I against the reserves?” Kahn sneered in the locker room, throwing down his gloves. “What talent is even in there?”

“Carl-Heinz is pretty good,” Schweinsteiger, the youngest starter on the team and the only one who could speak calmly to Kahn in his anger, said while casually swinging his legs. “But he’s a defender, so not much impact.”

Though older than Schweinsteiger, Lahm had just returned from his loan at Stuttgart and simply smiled, listening without comment. But Ballack suddenly turned towards him and asked, “That guy who blocks the way?”

Even Lahm, known for his sharp memory, took a moment to recall that Ballack had indeed interacted with Carl briefly—at the last charity match. If Ballack hadn’t been grabbing at people and Lahm hadn’t worried about him causing a scene with the staff in the corridor, he might not have immediately recognized Carl standing there.

It had been years since they last met. Carl had grown taller than in Lahm’s memory.

Lahm found it odd. Ballack wasn’t usually interested in just any passerby. Yet Lahm showed no expression and nodded with a smile, “A good kid, right?”

“Didn’t pay attention,” Ballack replied casually, as if he had asked on a whim, then let it drop.

Kahn remained displeased. His large hand suddenly slapped Schweinsteiger’s head, causing the younger player to yelp. Kahn’s sour mood actually stemmed from the national team situation. Since last year’s Euro failure, the former coach, Völler, had been sacked, and German legend Klinsmann stepped up as the new national coach.

Klinsmann, a former striker known as the “Golden Bomber” for his aggressive style and striking blonde hair, was a true star of his generation. Yet his appointment sparked skepticism among fans and critics alike because he had no prior coaching experience.

Whether due to lack of experience or precisely because of it, Klinsmann quickly focused less on tactics and more on internal politics, overhauling his coaching staff, calling up many young players, and phasing out numerous veteran stalwarts.

Veteran Leverkusen defender and former mainstay Wörns, for example, was expelled from the national team for criticizing Klinsmann’s tactics as a warning to others.

Yes, even the defense—the most experience-dependent position—was being aggressively refreshed. With Wörns gone, five new center-backs rotated through in a year without a settled starter, drawing heavy criticism.

Klinsmann even fancied introducing hockey techniques to train players, mocked by many German Football Association officials as a joke. Even the venerable and increasingly gentle Franz Beckenbauer couldn’t help but publicly denounce it as nonsense.

The media lamented how chaotic the 2006 World Cup might become, dubbing the “Golden Bomber” as the one blowing the national team to ruins.

World Cup? Klinsmann laughed. If he could make it to the World Cup, there was nothing to fear. Despite the daily insults he burned in the privacy of his home, the palace intrigue never ceased. His strategy was simple: as long as he groomed his loyalists fast enough, no one could catch up to sack him.

Having played for Bayern for two years and effectively taken a management course every German player experiences, Klinsmann, though still feeling inexperienced, firmly grasped some fundamental principles.

Beyond that, he ardently promoted attacking football, demanding wingers and full-backs to fly forward, defenders and midfielders to have forward-passing ability.

This suited Lahm perfectly. At just 20, he had been called up by Klinsmann and secured a starting spot on the national team, playing so well that Bayern anxiously recalled him early from Stuttgart.

Schweinsteiger also got his chance. His career progression was almost unbelievable; on the day he was called up, he was still on summer break at home and woke from a dream laughing, shouting “I’m going to the national team!”—only to be promptly thrashed by his older brother.

Some rejoiced, like Lahm and Schweinsteiger who embraced Klinsmann’s new regime, while others suffered, such as Kahn.

Kahn, long a senior figure and captain in the national team, had his captain’s armband stripped, overtaken by the rising star Ballack, who now dominated both the national and Bayern teams.

Fortunately, Bayern quietly favored their old captain, never mentioning the captaincy change, allowing Kahn and Ballack to coexist—one leading the national team, the other the club.

Losing his national team stature had already made Kahn sensitive, but his suffering didn’t end there. After stripping his captaincy, Klinsmann found Kahn’s influence too great and temper too wild to control, promoting Arsenal’s Lehmann to rotate with Kahn as goalkeeper.

Rotation—Kahn, who had guarded the goal all his life and roared like a lion in frustration for decades, now faced not only losing captaincy but having to alternate as second-choice goalkeeper in his twilight years. Never before had he endured such indignity. Seeing Klinsmann stand on the sidelines made him burn with fury, nearly wanting to pounce and bite him to death.

For a player, nothing mattered more than winning and performing well in matches. Now, sidelined, how could he showcase himself?

This move struck at his very core, yet this was the vulnerability players face against coaches. After the national team’s turmoil and fruitless battles, Kahn had no choice but to grit his teeth and bear it.

After all, the 2006 World Cup was only a year away. Representing one’s country on home soil was an honor and opportunity impossible to understand without experience. No matter what, Kahn didn’t want to miss out in these two critical years, so he cursed Klinsmann silently every day while outwardly smiling, “Ha, it’s just rotation, no big deal.”

This explained why Kahn always returned from national duty in a bad mood and was displeased with situations like rotating with Lehmann. Previously, rotation meant trust and a chance to prove himself, but now it felt like an admission that he was only suitable for such matches, which deeply frustrated him.

Someone tried to appease him: “Meeting the reserves is pure luck. Just treat it as a training match, a sparring session.”

“Yeah, just a formality.”

For the reserve players, however, as the match approached, the initial lax “we’re just here to spar” attitude disappeared. This was a match Uli Hoeness would watch from the bench. Losing was expected, but they could not afford to appear invisible on the pitch.

For fiercely competitive youth players aged 17 to 19, getting selected for a match with attention, and performing well, combined with their data and results, essentially decided whether they could continue their football careers—and if so, whether they’d earn a golden, silver, or plastic bowl to eat from.

Training sessions grew tense; players became dissatisfied with each other, fearing that a teammate’s mistake would make them all look like losers. The anxiety and gloom felt by starters were even more intense for substitutes, who at least got to play and seize chances, while they were left on the bench.

Some even began to resent the role of “making clothes for others to wear.” If promising players like Carl performed well, fine, but if those similar to them gained good contracts because of the match, how unfair would that be?

On the first training day post-charity match, Carl sensed the atmosphere shift. After training and the coach’s talk, instead of dismissing as usual, he clapped his hands and gathered the team.

They formed two circles—shorter inside, taller outside, shoulders linked tightly—and lowered their heads to listen.

“I know everyone’s feeling a lot of pressure and even anxiety, worrying about their performance and how this match might affect our futures. Honestly, I feel the same. This isn’t just any training game; it might be a turning point for us all.”

“I won’t lie, I want to break into the first team. Though many say I’m the most promising, I won’t hide that halfway through the season and after the winter window, there’s still no word on my contract. The passive wait is tough.”

Carl paused, then continued, “This feeling might make us see each other as rivals, which makes it hard to get along. That’s normal. But without each other, we wouldn’t have this precious chance. We won six rounds in the German Cup just to stand before the first team. If any of us slack off or don’t give our all, we’d have been knocked out long ago. It’s all of us together who changed our fate, brothers—all of us.”

“Some think we should sadly accept defeat, but in truth, stepping onto the pitch against them is already our greatest victory. This match itself is the prize—we have proven we can stand on the same field as the first team. Until they beat us, we are just as strong.”

“And if we beat them... don’t shush, I know no one dares imagine it—but if we stand united, so what? If we lose, maybe no one remembers us, but if we win, even our backups, second and third goalkeepers, will be seen by everyone. Newspapers will name every one of us. Everyone will wonder: How did they do it? A group of unknowns beating the star-studded first team!”

“The first team has only eleven starters, four or five usual subs, and six or seven who never get to play and get dropped in a couple of years. We all know this. Maybe we won’t get Bayern contracts, maybe never, but other clubs will give us chances. Whether that club is Werder Bremen, Schalke 04, Leverkusen, or a lower Bundesliga team—these are things we can still change.”

“This is the German Cup—the highest level competition we’ll play this season, our only chance to face Bundesliga teams. Yes, Hoeness will watch from the bench, but besides him, many scouts will be there—club and national team alike. We all know what that means. We know the first team’s strength, but I don’t want us to lose this chance out of fear.”

“Remember why we play football. Not to embarrass ourselves, but to prove we deserve to stand on a higher stage—to prove our ability, unity, and character. We are closest to professional football. Everyone has a future. I don’t want to pretend otherwise. But if we destroy each other’s futures, we ruin our own. Helping teammates achieve better prospects helps ourselves. We are teammates. On the pitch, we share triumphs and defeats, honor and shame, fate. So we fight for each other, like always.”

“We must play a match that shows them our potential, let them know we are not just reserves. We can exceed expectations, even surpass their imagination. Don’t think ‘it’s just a formality,’ or ‘we’re just sparring,’ or ‘we’ll be nothing after this match.’ Think about what we truly want—a chance to show ourselves, maybe even change our fate. We need unity, full effort, and everyone to play their best—whether you think you’re good enough or not, we can always be better than yesterday. That might earn us better contracts, better pay, better futures.”

“This isn’t a match for others. It’s for us. We want Hoeness to see, the first-team stars to see, that we’re not just here to fill the time, not here to surrender, not here to show off awkwardly. We’re here to compete, to earn respect. Just because we’re young and unknown, does that mean we’re inferior? Having made it to the same pitch, do we have no chance to win?”

“We are Bayern players too!”

Together they shouted in low voices, “We are Bayern players too!”

Carl clapped loudly, “See you tomorrow, gentlemen! Let’s go!!!”

Even after walking ten minutes with Müller, Carl’s cheeks still flushed, caught in the excitement of his speech. He wasn’t normally the type to speak at length. In daily life, he tried to minimize distance with teammates, avoiding labels like captain or star player—that was both wisdom and his instinctive fear of being excluded.

Rather than empty praise or submission, Carl hoped his team was truly united and cohesive, which is why he summoned courage to speak up now. Though confident during the speech, afterward he often mulled over whether he’d been inappropriate or awkward.

Carl felt measured by some invisible ruler. When passion faded, he wished he could pretend not to have so much feeling—sometimes it was overwhelming. His pure longing for beauty and goodness sometimes burst out uncontrollably, but deep down he knew these didn’t mesh with reality, making him feel naive and foolish. He strove to appear mature, to avoid association with those words.

Müller asked, “Carl, Carl, Carl, what are you thinking? Pay attention to me, pay attention!”

Then he jumped in front of him making a big goofy face.

“Are you nervous about the match? How’s training been? If I told you I bought tickets to come watch, would that make you happy or more nervous? What if I said it’s okay even if you lose—would you be happy or mad?”

“Why so many questions?”

Carl couldn’t help laughing, raising Müller’s eyebrows until his face turned into a hilarious comedy expression, prompting Müller to break free and mock-chase him. Carl nimbly dodged then caught Müller’s springy body, warning, “Okay, okay, don’t fall!”

“Boring. In summer let’s run here every day,” Müller said, boundless energy supporting Carl as he tried to jump while walking.

“You’re like a little pony—never stop moving.”

“I do like ponies. I’ll have one when I have money.”

“No money and buying tickets?”

“That’s... hey! Hey! Carl! How did you know? Who told you? Ah, don’t run, wait...”

They reached the subway station; now Carl was the agile one racing down, clocking a lightning-fast seven or eight seconds in the stairs race. Müller chased after him, panicking, grabbing him just as the train arrived. Quick as a flash, Carl pushed him inside, coaxing, “Alright, alright, time to go home.”

“I want the next train!” Müller resisted.

Unable to deny, he held the door while pulling Carl, saying hurriedly, “I didn’t mean to keep it from you, Carl, I just wanted to help you, make you happy...”

The rushing wind whipped through the tunnel, tousling Müller’s hair. He looked pitiful, eyes lighter in color, like a wounded little animal under the underground lights, earnestly confessing.

The train’s warning beep pierced the wind and their voices. Lights flickered, young love shimmering.

Müller looked down at Carl, who rarely looked up at him like this. His blond hair blown about beautifully, eyes clear and gentle. Under that gaze, Müller almost teared up.

Carl reached out, touched Müller’s face, slipped something into his jacket’s hood, smiling, “I know. Thank you, Thomas.”

Warm fingers gently brushed Müller’s cold cheeks, adjusting his scarf. Carl withdrew his hand as the doors began closing. Müller had to tuck his head and hands inside, shouting in panic, “See you tomorrow, Carl! See you tomorrow!”

“See you tomorrow.”

It was the first time Müller saw Carl smile like this, as if lighting up one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight lights in this underground world. It was also the first time Carl responded so clearly, filled with happiness.

Dizzy and overwhelmed, Müller stumbled and fell as the train started moving, drawing gasps from nearby passengers. He laughed it off, rubbing his head, quickly checking what Carl had put on him.

A small, elegant tie clip, suitable for a graduation ceremony. On the back, awkwardly and unfamiliar, were the initials T.M. Because Carl had kept it in his pocket, it seemed to carry his warmth and faint scent. Müller guessed it was the smell of Carl’s sweater or shirt, something only noticeable when resting his chin on his shoulder.

The feeling was strange. His fingers trembled as he touched the hood again, then found some bills.

Suddenly, his overwhelmed mind cleared. He covered his face, feeling clumsy and foolish. Only a big fat bear who keeps slipping on ice in winter, getting up and falling repeatedly, then angrily pounding the ice to smash himself in, could be more awkward.

He wanted to roll and shout in this subway car.

Damn, damn, damn!

Recently, Carl’s full attention was on preparing for the match. At home, he used a rental machine from school to replay footage, pausing to analyze movements, mentality, and tactics, which meant less time caring for Lila.

Carl worried she might be upset, but Lila accepted it well—being a second grader, the attitude of her companions mattered more than the time spent. She preferred Carl and her caregiver over her easily tearful mother.

Erika had been busy lately, often coming home past midnight. She said she was working on a newly renovated gallery—like many wealthy wives, Erika once ran one herself. Such galleries, not relying on sales or brand reputation, functioned mainly as social venues and sometimes money laundering fronts.

Since their divorce was secret, the gallery hadn’t closed, still managed by someone.

Erika no longer dealt with banking, only the gallery remained to maintain the illusion of her past life, somewhat a career.

But since moving, her condition had been poor, rarely going out to work. Now, at least, she was willing to leave the house, which gave Carl a deep sigh of relief.

Not having to face his mother made him feel much lighter.

He never expected her to make big money, just to break even and regain social life.

The German Cup match day soon arrived. Carl’s high school even organized a group viewing in the auditorium—after all, they had a student participating! When he appeared on the big screen, classmates expressed envy and excitement with howls. Carl didn’t notice; his heart pounded so hard he nearly lost all sensation, almost thinking it no longer existed.

Though he had played in the U17 World Championship and U17 World Cup last summer, achieving excellent results, and was now playing in the 2. Bundesliga, the atmosphere could not compare to this moment.

Since it was first team versus reserves, and the reserves lacked a home ground, renting among several small Munich stadiums, the match was naturally set in Bayern’s current home, the Olympic Stadium.

Though soon to be retired when the Allianz Arena opens this summer, this stadium, built for the Munich Olympics, still held 69,000 spectators—a magnificent venue beyond doubt.

Though Carl had just been at the charity match last week, actually sitting in the visitors’ locker room, changing, listening to the coach, and walking the player tunnel, was an entirely different experience.

And the first team players they admired daily were right beside them.

Outside, the crowd roared. The novelty of first team vs. reserves drew a high attendance.

No away fans, only home supporters eagerly and freshly waiting to “inspect” their youth academy’s fruits.

Coach Magath’s heavy rotation pleased them; otherwise, it would be a disgraceful mismatch. Spectators laughed over newspapers: “This paper’s too polite—don’t lose by more than three and it’s a win? I say, losing by less than five is a youth academy success!”

“What if the reserves score?”

“Kahn must be asleep in the back!”

“Hahahahaha!”

The jovial mood flowed not only in the stands but also among Bayern’s first team, whose ease made the reserves even more nervous.

Though everyone rallied and cheered daily before the match, many players were genuinely shaky, their legs weak, dazed, unsure whether to step left or right first.

Carl adjusted his armband, feeling the strong presence of Kahn beside him, sensing the surrealness.

But he knew the team needed at least one seemingly ordinary person to act composed, so everyone wouldn’t think, “Wow, none of my teammates are shocked,” helping to spread calm like a yawn throughout the group.

Pretending calmed him too—pitiful as it was, this was Carl’s usual coping method.

Despite adjusting well, the match’s opening proved tougher than expected. The first team’s composure alone was overwhelming.

Their large-scale rotation ensured all starters were fresh, and from the start, they displayed fierce attacking power. Had the reserves not immediately adopted a defensive crouch and the opponents not taken it lightly, goals would have come quickly.

“Oh!” the crowd sighed, “Clear it! Kids! Don’t play these boring tricks. Football is about playing forward!”

Knowing the scene might be ugly, Carl felt no embarrassment or rush. The match just began. Crouching isn’t shameful; losing by five is. They were nearly adults; lacking professional dedication to win would be truly immature.

As captain and center-back, Carl took full command, swiftly adjusting the team and reminding teammates to cover positions. Having trained together often, they soon organized a defense that, while not perfect, was solid enough.

“There’s no such thing as a good or bad bus defense in football. No matter the opponent, play your style. Where you play doesn’t matter.”

Besides, this pitch, though large, had turf no better than the one in Benningen; familiar feelings kept growing.

Unlike some daydreaming or chatting teammates, Lahm watched intently from the sidelines. Just over ten minutes in, he turned to Schweinsteiger, who was blowing gum bubbles seriously, whispering:

“Let’s put on our jackets properly, don’t get cold. Poor warm-up might break the rhythm. We might be needed.”

“Huh?” Schweinsteiger’s bubble burst, sticking on his face.

While they whispered, Ballack leaned in and bluntly told the coach and chairman:

“They’re playing rubbish, too embarrassing. Let me in.”

Magath looked embarrassed, but Hoeness laughed heartily:

“Wait, Michel! If I spot someone promising, you go on and try them out.”

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