9 kilocalories

Among all the reasons athletes retire at their peak—“regrets,” “unexpected circumstances,” or “being forced”—what can be more merciless, more pitiful, and more helpless than injury?

No matter how much an athlete emphasizes spirit, they are still animals, reliant on their bodies as the foundation for any struggle. Whether the body is healthy or not is utterly indifferent to willpower. Even in the football world, where the talk of fighting and perseverance borders on obsession, once injured, no one speaks of superhuman will; the only option is to lie quietly on the sickbed and recover.

Many clubs like Bayern, whose bank accounts hold money seen but not spent, are equally frugal in recruitment and squad renewal—no tears are shed without seeing a stretcher.

Until the captain lies on the whiteboard with eyes closed and tongue out, it’s impossible for Rummenigge and Hoeneß to decide to buy him a substitute or change his position for years to come.

Carl, often teased as the “supreme football tyrant” whose name is fixed atop the starting lineup as an unchangeable template, means he has been the player with the highest attendance and longest playing time in the team for years. Behind this honor lies a seemingly endless fatigue, as if he can never rest.

More than once, Carl thought about how chaotic it would be if he suddenly got injured, how helpless his teammates would feel—so he never dared to get hurt, and even minor injuries, he tried to ignore and stay on the pitch.

Yet precisely because he never got injured, the club’s management never considered letting him rest or replacing him.

Isn’t this a vicious cycle?

Better to endure a short-term pain than a long-term one. This season, with Hummels and Boateng still around, the center-back lineup is at its most brilliant in years. Life would go on without him—perhaps the team would even unite and create miracles after the shock.

Experience had taught him that when they broke down the defense together, heartbroken and slapping each other, they performed well; but when they laughed and joked, feeling secure, that was when disaster struck.

Then he would lie in bed, shed a few tears, hold his teammates’ hands, urging them to play well and not worry about him... He firmly believed that as long as they had some conscience left, they would cry their hearts out to reassure him, then, with renewed resolve, beat their opponents on the field, saying something like, “Our captain is nearly dead, and you’re still causing trouble?”—and win.

As for sponsors, with contracts expiring this year, it would be fine not to renew. Though personal sponsorships might be tricky, they would naturally come to an end over time.

After all, no one wants injuries; it’s just an unavoidable fact.

Carl was certain this was a way to free himself from suffering, a way that would leave everyone happy, though he himself would endure some hardship. There was no faster or more effective method. Moreover, the long recovery after injury, the inability to return to peak form, the psychological gap, the unwillingness to accept it, and the determination not to renew his contract but to retire—all this fit perfectly with his perfectionist nature.

Just don’t get hurt too badly. If the injury was too severe, he feared he might actually die. Worse still was the thought of Hoeneß, Rummenigge, and friends sitting by his bedside, sobbing and begging him not to do anything rash like jump off a building. Carl wanted a low-key, rational retirement, not a sensational event that made the world focus on him or earned him the tragic German of the Year award.

Ideally, the injury should be just the right size—not too big, not too small.

The more he thought about it, the more he felt that once his mind was open, life’s path would widen. Carl immediately began researching, spending the entire night reading tragic cases of predecessors forced to retire early due to injury.

In the past, such green-field tragedies filled him with sympathy and fear, constantly warning himself to avoid misfortune—as if saying, “Unintentionally scratch it, bad luck go away.” But now, while still feeling sorry for them, he found a strange excitement; looking at their stories from a different angle, they became a veritable textbook of varied retirement scenarios.

He silently apologized to them and pondered seriously.

“Muscle tear from improper warm-up? No, that doesn’t fit me…”

“Twisted ligament stepping into poor turf? No, I was born on Bayern’s grass, already used to it, never been injured there, cross off…”

“Broken leg? But that’s too dependent on the opponent… No one dares to do that in Bundesliga except on Champions League fields…”

“Ah, ankle.” Carl unknowingly turned to Marco van Basten, another Bayern legend.

Bayern’s first charity match was organized to help his mother club, Fortuna Sittard, through financial hardship—a revolutionary idea more than a decade ago, hugely successful, raising three million euros from tickets and auctions, astonishing everyone and setting a standard for such events.

At the time, the club hadn’t even moved to Allianz yet; Carl was still in youth training, captain of the second team, running errands during the charity match, earning some pocket money, and just daring to peek at Hoeneß’s bald head, standing silently in the players’ tunnel.

After the match, when everyone had left, he went to the main team’s dressing room door, touched the heavy wooden door, longing to enter the first team—and then he really got the chance.

Twelve years had passed like that.

It felt as if the old legend was guiding his life path again. Carl studied his medical records carefully; it seemed quite feasible—ankles were truly fragile, few footballers had healthy ankles, and they were especially prone to being stepped on during matches.

If he dared not dodge, perhaps in a single match he could skillfully send himself off.

He even somewhat shifted his idol—from admiring Paolo Maldini since childhood, the best defender and captain in his idealistic heart, to deeply loving van Basten for his reality: retiring at thirty.

“Bless me, great legend, that I too may retire at thirty!”

Despite having spent the previous night like a mushroom in a dark room, exposed to TV radiation and blue light, this morning Carl was unusually smiling at his reflection. It was the best sleep he’d had in days; waking up, his brain didn’t feel glued to the pillow but filled with a long-lost anticipation for a new day.

Spinning around in front of the mirror, he thought maybe in half a month he could lie back down happily, eating cake and ice cream in bed, watching the movies he once vaguely wanted to see, playing games, reading and drawing, rolling outside in a wheelchair to breathe fresh air and enjoy the park in its prime—rather than waking up just to go to work. Doing all those things that made him feel alive, not like a fish barely alive but almost dead—he hadn’t done those things for a long time.

His smile brightened.

The reflection in the mirror was suddenly no longer the usual cold, elite man; his features softened, eyes sparkling, the gentle image of youth returning with the fading summer heat.

The holiday was over. The next league match was on September 5th at the Rhein-Neckar Arena, facing Hoffenheim 1899. Immediately after the league, many Bayern players wouldn’t even return to Munich but would gather directly in Northern Ireland for their final World Cup qualifier.

Carl hoped to get injured in this league match—after all, Bayern was his “owner,” paying his salary; if he got hurt for Bayern, it was loyalty; getting injured with the national team was unacceptable. The club could fight the German Football Association for three months, but Carl worried Hoeneß might storm Löw’s house and smash his head with a lamp.

That would be terrifying.

After the slackness of preseason and the drama and emergency of the charity match, though the first two league games had ended with wins, Ancelotti felt he was only just taking real control of the dressing room.

“In training, focus is essential. Hoffenheim is in great form, dominating the first two matches. Compared to last season, they’ve improved greatly. Because of the charity match, preparation time was tight—we can’t be careless,” he sternly summarized after practice. “Today, only Carl gave me the feeling of being fully back in work mode, the others were not perfect.”

The players were silent but annoyed, nodding lowly. Kimmich seriously asked Ancelotti what he did wrong, in a picky manner that startled the coach, who carefully crafted a stern response. Kimmich blushed and snorted, unhappy because he felt he worked hard today; he didn’t understand why the coach said that. Yet after asking, though displeased, he found no reason to argue and quietly returned to position.

Carl wasn’t happy either—usually training dampened his mood, feeling dull and exhausting, but today, perhaps due to focusing too much on how to get injured naturally, he finished without any emotional reaction.

How come his ankle didn’t hurt or tire?

Maybe it was laying the groundwork for the injury?

“No, I didn’t train well enough. Maybe the charity match was too tiring, I couldn’t recover after the break, intensity is lacking. Tomorrow we adjust and restart; maybe it will get better.”

Both sides found a face-saving exit. The players agreed, and Ancelotti nodded in approval. A group of master and apprentices, all speaking past each other, each with their own agenda, dispersed.

Carl clearly had no ambition to seize power. Ancelotti noticed this, at least the captain always showed him respect and cooperated, even when dealing with the board, who were careful to give Carl credit and take blame themselves. Normally, having such a captain should make the job easy, but Ancelotti felt more pressure than ever.

He also sensed that despite Carl’s respect, the others barely cared about what he said.

And he didn’t understand why these German lads seemed to think differently. Ancelotti tried a soft approach, greeting them kindly with new German jokes every day, but the response was silent, steady gazes without a single laugh. On the first day, he felt his scalp tingle.

Unable to get close in life was one thing; tactically, it was even more difficult. He had never seen a club management that openly controlled finances, transfers, training, and tactics. And considering most Bayern executives were former stars in their prime, he couldn’t say they lacked football knowledge—he was truly frustrated.

They didn’t just manage secretly; they openly criticized him. Morning private talks were contradicted by afternoon reports. Ancelotti’s German improved rapidly as he learned countless sarcastic words, trying to figure out what made people unhappy daily.

The season had just started; Ancelotti was already on antihypertensives, hugging his blanket at night, feeling wronged. He pondered why Guardiola had left. Asked if Bayern was good, he said, “Great, I love the German football atmosphere, I love my players.” Asked about contract renewals, he laughed, “I’m off to the Premier League to chase new dreams!”

He shouldn’t have been dazzled by the big club’s ploy; he should have realized that if even someone as clever as Guardiola fled overnight by plane, he should reconsider too.

Bayern was not a stepping stone upward in his career but rather a new low.

Apart from a foolish James Rodríguez, only Carl stood somewhat on his side—limited to when the board didn’t interfere. Ancelotti tossed and turned sleeplessly, feeling he couldn’t manage without Carl. But a coach had to read the captain’s face—how miserable.

Unlike the worried Ancelotti, Hoffenheim’s coach Julian Nagelsmann was confident, proud, and spoiled by everyone at his club. At just 29, same age as Carl, he was genuinely a young coach.

Last year, Hoffenheim finished second to last and fired their coach, hiring the 28-year-old Nagelsmann—a move seen as the club’s craziest decision ever. The Bundesliga laughed, saying, “Enjoy the 2. Bundesliga, Hoffenheim’s going down for sure.”

Who knew he’d save the team, finishing 15th and stabilizing morale? Summer transfers were active. Now, facing Leipzig and Cologne, they might even climb above Bayern if not for alphabetical order.

Ancelotti was sure that if Hoffenheim lost this match, he’d become a tragic stepping stone for a rookie coach’s glory.

Match day, September 5th, Hoffenheim hosts Bayern Munich. The sky was overcast all day, cold and gloomy, with temperatures dropping to twelve degrees Celsius. A chill breeze filled the stadium, intensifying the tense atmosphere.

The Rhein-Neckar Arena was packed to capacity. Having survived relegation last season and rising again this season, the home fans were eager to give their all, hoping for a miracle.

Every “weak” team has two golden chances each season: beating Bayern once is enough to brag for a year—never to be missed.

Blue-and-white scarves waved as fans sang their anthem, like bringing a covered sky into the stadium. Bayern’s traveling fans couldn’t drown out the noise.

Above the pitch, giant screens displayed player info and time; the announcer’s voice echoed around.

“This is a clash between two Bundesliga table-toppers!”

Though there were five leaders now, it wasn’t wrong.

In the pre-match locker room, Carl felt anxious tension. Hoffenheim’s coach Nagelsmann’s voice nearly penetrated the thin walls—a common occurrence in this old stadium. There had been incidents where home coaches shouted red cards and insults, provoking fights from visiting coaches.

The neighboring locker room was filled with passionate analysis of Bayern’s weak points, especially their backline pressure, but no one knew if this was a new psychological tactic.

Ancelotti tried to shake off distractions and motivate his players, explaining tactics, but many seemed distracted. His pressure before the match was nothing like Guardiola’s; playing under Guardiola meant constantly thinking, using your brain, or else you’d fail and rebel. Now, with a “normal” coach, they felt relaxed but also somewhat disdainful.

The charity match had been too dramatic and exhausting, followed by a break, affecting the locker room’s form.

Carl’s mood, however, was not oppressive; he tried to control his excitement—today, he was truly fighting for himself. His retirement was now in his hands.

This match might be one of the most important in his life—his farewell.

Though it stung that his last game wasn’t at Allianz, thinking from another perspective, since he had decided to retire this harshly, it was better not to get injured in front of home fans, not to make them cry or riot, not to be rushed to familiar doctors immediately. That was a good thing.

So he stood, encouraging teammates:

“The start of a new season is always tough, gentlemen. I know since the charity match everyone’s tired, but after this game, we’ll return to normal and gradually get used to it. By season’s end, we might even feel regret and nostalgia—wishing we’d won that game, performed better then. The carefree days we now take for granted may become great regrets in memory.”

Suddenly he felt lost, touched by harsh reality—was he really retiring after this match? So ordinary, so abrupt, like a harshly broken comma? Would this be his last pre-match speech to his teammates?

At that moment, he alone felt the deep meaning of “seeming ordinary.”

But after days of reflection, he returned to the present—he had wavered many times, and each time regretted it deeply. He instinctively clung to this life, unwilling to leave the arguments of Rummenigge and Hoeneß upstairs, the brightly lit offices where overtime was endless, the stadium where fans held signs calling him a puppet of the board, the moment when he raised an unopened envelope.

If he could retire normally, he wouldn’t choose such an extreme path.

Better a short pain than a long one, he told himself again.

Yet his bonds were unusually awakened, making him drop grand speeches and smile gently, trying to ease the mood:

“Regrets don’t matter. Carrying many regrets, we still keep striving, keep living. No one wins all the time. I just hope you all enjoy yourselves, enjoy our profession. Come on, play the villain—the new season has truly started, and our new opponents are quite strong; at least their ears are tough. Their coach shouts every day, and after a whole season, they’re still not deaf—a tough bunch…”

Ancelotti felt he’d never heard such a cold and slightly personal joke.

Then he was stunned as the whole team burst into laughter.

“We won’t lose, Carl!” they shouted. “Maybe their ears are just high quality!”

Was it that his humor was too sophisticated?

He was heartbroken; no one appreciated the Italian’s humor and good food more than his work clashes. He felt these Germans were too coarse.

They chatted and joked, linking arms and complaining while packing urgently to line up, discussing tactics and which local restaurant to visit after the game. Müller, laughing, draped his arm over Carl’s shoulder, asking why he was so happy today.

“If you’re happy, I’m happy.”

“Am I happy?” Carl bent down to tie his shoes, smiling, patiently straightening Müller’s socks and shin guards—aligning the stripes with his calf muscles.

This might be the last time sitting beside Müller, hearing him chatter before a match. Carl hadn’t helped him with socks in a long time. How was he still so careless at twenty-six or twenty-seven? Carl still saw him as a sixteen or seventeen-year-old kid.

He wondered how much Muller would cry if Carl really got injured today.

Sorry, this was probably the most selfish thing he’d ever done.

Suppressing the strong sadness, he focused more carefully.

Müller froze, water cup suspended mid-air, watching Carl’s long, knobby fingers deftly tuck the sock edge, gently twisting, adjusting the tight sock to the perfect comfort. He shivered like he’d been electrocuted. Shyly, he grabbed Carl’s wrist and pulled him up:

“What’s wrong? You never helped me with this before.”

“If I don’t help you, you better be careful with your shin guards. If you’re careless, next time… always wear them right,” Carl smiled. “Alright, what are you looking at?”

Müller opened his mouth, but a whistle outside reminded them to line up. He realized this was an ordinary game, and Carl was just in a good mood. He shook his head, masking inexplicable sadness and unease with laughter, collapsing on Carl’s shoulder, joking:

“I’ve always been careless with these! Next time help me or just scold me, don’t be mad, okay?”

“Why are you still like a kid? Look at you…” Carl laughed, then Hummels accidentally knocked something flying. Carl threw it back. Neuer came to put the captain’s armband on. As Carl stood, Neuer crouched smoothly, putting it on while complaining: “Hey, Carl, why do you suddenly have two extra arms? Seen a doctor? Oh, the doctor said it’s Thomas’s, can you give him his hands back? Don’t be a thief, okay?”

Carl laughed, returned Müller’s hand, stood, and kicked him playfully, ready to lead the team out:

“Where did this temper come from again?”

Neuer snorted, smiled, winked at Müller, and hugged him as they walked out, saying it was going to be a tough day and to watch him closely.

Carl said, “Don’t run off yourself, don’t wander outside the penalty area, and I’ll be grateful.”

“If you don’t move, what’s the point of me attacking?” Neuer laughed. “Unless I’m going out to save you or clean up your mess—that means I love you. What, you still blame me? Heartless, bad Carl.”

“Alright, alright,” Carl surrendered.

Neuer’s teasing was spot-on. After kickoff, Hoffenheim showed strong attacking intent. Nagelsmann was honest; his mouth said to press Bayern’s defense, and the tactics followed through. Hoffenheim’s wingers, Kramaric and Sebastian Rudy, took flight from the start, repeatedly threatening Bayern’s defense, drawing cheers from home fans and curses from visitors.

Damn it, if only Ribéry and Robben were still young instead of often getting injured old men. Though they occasionally got injured young too, if they were still young, would your teams dare pull this against Bayern?

Hoffenheim’s tactic was clear: fast passing and high pressing to squeeze Bayern’s defense. With high morale, youth, and solid tactics, they quickly put Bayern under huge pressure.

At the 15th minute, Kramaric broke through on Hoffenheim’s left, using speed and wall passes with the attacking midfielder to shake off Kimmich, who had been marking him since kickoff, and rushed toward the penalty area, sparking the first small climax.

If Kramaric continued, Hoffenheim had a strong chance to threaten Neuer’s goal.

No way?! Playing so smoothly?

Carl decisively charged forward.

He disliked tackles because they risked injury and reduced anticipation skills—he was a cerebral player, unlike the stereotype of defenders constantly sliding. But dislike didn’t mean he couldn’t or didn’t use them well.

Besides, today he wanted to hurt himself!

With no hesitation, Carl executed a fierce sliding tackle. Fans hadn’t even cheered for Kramaric yet before gasping in awe. Such clashes of speed and power instantly spike adrenaline—Carl, usually calm and precise, resorting to a tackle so early surprised even Bundesliga commentators in the booth.

“Looks like this play is more thrilling than expected! Kramaric, don’t judge a player by appearance—he’s made the world’s best center-backs cautious! Here comes Carl, smooth and sharp sliding tackle! Oh no, the angle’s off, Carl be careful! Ah! Ah! Ah! Kramaric, why did you panic and slip? Goodness, no contact! He only touched the ball, perfectly clean! Beautiful, beautiful!!! Was this in your anticipation??? Let’s watch the replay!”

“See, though subtle, Kramaric’s center of gravity shifted early—young and nervous, overwhelmed by such a decisive tackle. Look at Nagelsmann’s frustrated face! Carl obviously noticed the minute movement in a split second, anticipating everything. Without intense focus and rich experience, this wouldn’t have been possible!”

“As expected of the most violent gentleman on the field, the most gentlemanly defender! Outstanding! Carl seems to have reached a new level this season—cautious, decisive, composed, meticulous! Let’s watch this textbook clean tackle again!”

Carl was thinking: “I almost twisted my ankle trying not to dodge his studs…”

Who understood the silent embarrassment when Kimmich ran over, pounding his shoulder excitedly?

This was not what he wanted.

Carl looked at Kramaric, scolding lightly: “Kid, how old are you? You get scared and slip?”

“Missed your chance!”

No, no! He steadied himself: The opponent’s striker was just inexperienced, so was his diving. The match goes on; he must keep trying!

He prayed for an 80-kilogram giant to accidentally step on his ankle somewhere wrong for a clean exit.

As the match continued, at the 28th minute, Hoffenheim’s Lucas received the ball in midfield but chose to drive forward instead of passing. With a wide field of vision, he saw forward Uth making a run and decided to cross.

Carl quickly guessed Lucas’s intent, sprinted to Uth, aiming to block or intercept, hoping someone would step on his ankle.

But Lucas’s awareness was good; his passing accuracy was terrible. Carl hadn’t intercepted yet, and the ball didn’t reach Uth but flew straight over Carl’s head.

Carl, wanting injury, stalled two seconds before realizing the opponents were gifting him chances!

Still, he instinctively headed the ball away.

Behind him, Neuer shouted “Good!” and caught the ball, ending another crisis.

“What dedication! Watch the young guns on TV, see how the highly decorated Karl Heermann treats every match, every detail! Never sparing energy, never underestimating the opponent. Another sharp block by him, Bayern avoids danger again!”

Opponent’s key mistake! Carl felt like falling into an abyss!

Lucas, what are you doing? If your passing were half as accurate as Kroos, I’d be nicely tucked under white sheets by now.

There’s a reason you’re not in the national team, you know?

True heartbreak isn’t loud fights but wanting to be hurt and finding no one willing.

At halftime, Ancelotti almost pulled Carl’s hair, and teammates each punched him, admiring his effort. “Is this necessary? You said you want to enjoy football, but you start so intense? Alright, second half, we have to push too!”

Hummels, gloomy, said to Carl the first words in a month: “What are you crazy for? I’m not dead.”

Carl thought: …You don’t understand me.

Neuer teased: “Carl just loves me too much. It’s okay to relax a little, really.”

Carl retorted angrily, kicking him, but everyone took it as a small jealous outburst, laughing heartily.

Minutes ticked by. Hoffenheim played well. By the 75th minute, the score was still goalless, and without Carl’s excellent defense in the first half, Bayern might have been embarrassed by two goals.

Then Carl got a real chance—a true chance.

Hoffenheim counterattacked in midfield. Rudy passed to Kramaric, who pushed forward swiftly. Two players interchanged, about to break through Bayern’s defense.

Hummels was trailing alone—dangerous and exhausting.

Carl sprinted back, heart pounding, anticipating the angle for a tackle. He knew this was high risk—not just for clearing the ball but for injury. Failure here meant Hoffenheim likely taking the lead.

Failure to get injured here meant no more chances this match.

How could he play elsewhere without opportunities?

He accelerated as hard as he did in the Euro final.

“Oh my God!!! Two players sprinting at full speed, so intense! Carl Heermann slides again, toes aimed at the ball. Does he never tire or fear? If mistimed, Kramaric could break his ankle stepping down! Is such dedication for a league win and protecting teammates worth it?—Ah!!! Clean tackle! Like a red arrow flashing by, no contact, rising smoothly! Kramaric looks back dumbfounded, realizing he lost the ball! Bayern fans go wild! I’m almost there too! Super Karl!!! Saves Bayern again! Hummels helps him up! If I were you, I’d kiss my captain hard now!”

“All began with captain Carl Heermann’s desperate clearance! Two clean tackles kept Kramaric at bay, a great defense! Attack ended with him, counterattack started with him! Let’s focus on Carl… Oh, he must be exhausted. Those are tears of joy, of hard-earned sweetness. Lewandowski kisses the captain’s eyes in comfort…”

Great captain Carl lay face down, lifeless. Teammates turned him over, he covered his face, and surrounded by the team’s kisses, he couldn’t help crying louder.

God!

I wanted to get injured!

Is that so hard?

You’ve never been so kind to me before. I’ve suffered so much; now share some pain with me. Why not?

Why do you treat me this way?

“Don’t be sad, Carl, you’re the best captain, the best!”

Damn it! Let me retire, let me retire!