P) The Final: Germany v Brazil... from Berlin

I made hard work of getting to Berlin. My mind has given up and left
me to face my decisions alone. What could have been a restful journey
from Munich to Berlin turned into a frenzied fiasco via Frankfurt and
an arrival in Berlin after yet another sleepless night on a
train.

My body has caught on to my mind's little game and turned against me as
well. No amount of eating or sleeping will revive it above the most
basic of functioning.

In the absence of any real sort of body or mind, I have been running
solely on soul. A soul that sought a way to know Berlin's. And the most
mindless and effortless way to get to know any city? A bus tour! The
whole of Berlin in one hour flat! I could hardly wait to get started
and was the first in my seat at the top of the bus.

I was joined by a thickload of Americans, Brits and Germans and finally
our guide. The well-rounded woman spoke with the misfortune of a
learned American accent and had the bum bag, pearl earrings, and
baseball cap to match. She sat with a microphone in her hand and
another jammed up her arse.

As the bus leapt into action, so did our guide, sprouting a horrendous
sort of racehorse commentary skipping from English to German and back
again in a manner that flattened discernable difference. Dual
languages, but such a monotone. She delivered her overly practiced
lines with sensitivity for all except timing. I pitied those
comprehending both versions.

"Now here is something for the kids on the bus" of which there were
none.

"Even I don't know what is real or out of my garden" referring to
chunks of the wall.

"Who is sitting in a glass house will no more throw stones" and with
eyes poignantly dipped "who burns books will burn people as
well".

The big woman seemed to stop dead whenever the bus did the same and I
could have sworn I saw a spark when she leapt up to point out
Fassbender and Rausch, a chocolate factory. Perhaps the second
microphone was really a power cord.

The tour confirmed exactly what I had started to suspect. Berlin was a
city nonplussed by the Cup. The only flags I saw adorned government
buildings. The locals wore neither Germany's colours nor faces hopeful
for glory. In fact, the most enthusiastic displays were from the city's
Turks who were busy battling their way on to third place.

Nevertheless, the Final was a special occasion and so I decided to do
something unique on its eve. I decided to wash my clothes. It was not a
decision made so much by choice, but by sheer slimy footed necessity. I
simply could not take it any more. And my feet have seen some slime
that would curl a lesser man's toes.

I sought directions to a laundromat and set off wearing only shoes,
jeans and a jumper. ONLY shoes, jeans and a jumper. Dirty ones at
that.

I wandered the streets for a long time until I realised where I had
been directed. It was indeed a brightly lit room full of washing
machines and would have been perfect had I wanted to BUY one, but that
was just not something I wanted to do (nor is it something I think I
will ever want to do).

Some further directions and some further wandering saw me to a more
appropriate locale where two wonderful women helped to translate the
signs from German to English and then dumb the English down to helpless
boy English. It was a deeply satisfying experience, inserting coins and
pushing buttons, every move at the direction of the women. I could not
wait to get home and start dirtying again!

I retired early that night. I wanted to watch the match at the popular
Sony Centre and felt I should wake up before dawn to be sure of my
place. After travelling more than ten thousand kilometres to be in
Berlin for the Final, I was not going to sleep in and miss the whole
thing. I had also promised an early wake up call for a guy called
Alexander who I had met from the dorm. He spoke with a passion for the
game and said he wanted to join me.

At four in the morning, Alexander woke the dorm with a shout. A
nightmare, the poor dear. I soothed him back to sleep, telling him
everything was okay and Mummy was there, only to shake him awake a few
minutes later. I could not get back to sleep, too distracted by music
coming from the university nearby. I imagined thousands of drunk
students on their way to the Sony Centre just to ensure no one else
could get in. It was exactly the sort of stunt I would have pulled and
thus I reasoned I should make my move.

Alexander was out. He said he would follow in an hour, but I knew he
would never. I was neither surprised nor disappointed. Lunacy is not
for the weak willed and this is one lunatic who likes to work alone. As
do I.

I caught the first bus of the day to arrive at the gates at about five
in morning, eight hours before kick off. It was entirely unnecessary. I
was among the first few in line. No thousands of students. No fight for
position. I felt a jealous pang and wished I could think of a way to
wake Alexander again.

I mingled with those who shared the questionable sense to be there so
early. I was the only sober one about and this was seen as something
that had to be rectified. I was fed a few 'Becks' by locals Aiko, Malte
and Jan. Two fellows from Uruguay chipped in with some Bavarian white
wine. Someone's spare apple liqueur finished the job. It almost
finished me. When they opened the gates at eight am, I was truly drunk
and ran in roaring for Deutschland and pumping the air.

Of course, it could never last. Within an hour or two, I was shivering
in a corner and really starting to crumble. Apple crumble.

I rolled my eyes to assess the Sony Centre. Great buildings of glass
encircled a covered area of fountains, trees and cafes with class. The
area was not very big and would house perhaps ten thousand fans at a
push, but this was the most Berlin had to offer for the biggest of
games.

The Centre was the best place in Berlin to find a big screen. Not that
it was very big. It was piddley in fact. I have seen much bigger
screens in Denmark, Slovenia and France. The small big screen was
dwarfed by the snack shack positioned to block half the view and could
hardly compete with the boastful banner advertising its presence. And
this was the SONY Centre! The world's leaders in television technology
could do no better than something from someone's back shed.

I quit my gazing and tried to pull myself together. An important
appointment approached. I was to meet with the manager of
'Lindenbraus', an expensive cafe in the unique position of having one
of the very few balconies overlooking the Sony Centre. A balcony, I am
proud to say, from which I would be viewing the game, the manager
having personally seen to my reservation.

It had taken some doing. On my first visit, a few days earlier, I spoke
with the manager and explained what I was seeking. He said yes, he
understood, but was then urgently called away. I left it there for the
day. No deal yet, but I was well on the road to success. I had the man
saying yes.

Several visits and overpriced coffees later, I had another chance to
speak with the manager. I had won his attention by being respectful
enough to keep going away, but persistent enough to keep coming back.
We exchanged names and for once my cursed writing proved to be a
blessing. Mr Suchiend was delighted to invite Mr Sucha up to the
balcony.

"We are like brothers!" I said, pushing it perhaps just a bit.

I arrived at Lindenbraus at midday on match day. Mr Suchiend greeted me
with a warm smile and sent me straight upstairs. I sat down at my table
marked with a reservation, the perfect souvenir.

A waiter rushed over.

"Excuse me sir, you can't sit there..."

"Sucha! I'm Sucha!"

"So sorry sir."

"That's okay, forget it. Happens all the time."

Sipping on a fresh cold 'Becks', I admired the crowd gathering below.
They had painted their faces and brought with them their flags. Most
also brought in full bellies of booze, made to drink it on entry. They
were really crammed into the tiny arena, echoing with chants that I now
recognised well. I picked out some familiar faces from my wait at the
gate. We waved and shared looks of amazement at where I now sat.

My newly acquired hangover was lifting. With the crowd's mood rising up
and the beer going down, I started to feel better.

The atmosphere was energetic and colourful. The crowd were drunk, but,
in contrast to the hall in Munich, joyfully so. They radiated, Germans
and Brazilians alike, joining together to celebrate the Final that had
finally arrived. Flags were waving. Scarves were held up, outstretched
in arms. The anthems were sung with vigour and there followed a
tremendous roar. It was time to begin.

Kick off to a quick cheer. Then, everyone stood silent and still with a
fixated gaze.

The silence was broken when Germany's new national hero, their goal
keeper, first touched the ball. They celebrated his kick and the man's
every move. I watched from the balcony feeling far from the action. It
was certainly fun, but not where a Jucha belonged. I hit the
crowd.

They were really in this game. They hand waggled for an early free
kick, cheered when a Brazilian went down and booed for their own yellow
card.

Ten minutes in, there was a good German run down the side and everyone
stretched up on their toes. The crowd were on a ride that they were
enjoying so much. Germany looked good! They were out playing the
Brazilians and were well rewarded with cheers.

As the half progressed, the supporters were given reason to gulp again
and again as Brazil turned the game. Germany's keeper combined with the
crossbar to repel all attacks. The crowd sighed together each time.
They knew they were lucky, but with the half closed and the score tied
at nil-all, they felt they were in with a chance.

The crowd enjoyed the break, taking the opportunity to relax and
discuss progress. It was agreed by all that the best German strategy
was to shut the game down, to keep the Brazilians from scoring. The
need to score themselves was never mentioned and I did not dare raise
it for fear of looking ignorant. What know I of this game?

While the fans replenished their beers, I hunted for food. I had not
eaten all day and it was taking an extra sickly toll. I had noticed
that Josty's Cafe had laid it on for its VIPs and so I wandered through
its buffet, sneaking in food and scribbling my notes.

The head waiter saw me slinking around.

"Are you with the BBC?"

"No, I'm..."

"Because we have a table upstairs for the BBC."

"BBC? BBC! Oh, I thought you said LBC! Yes BBC's me. Sucha's the
name."

I headed up with both confidence and care to join my contemporaries
sitting upstairs. I enjoyed a minor feast, though I could not abide
sitting behind glass and so rejoined the crowd for the game's second
half.

I made it down just in time to join the Germans in thinking they had
stolen the lead. I was caught up in the fever and found myself
mimicking the crowd, leaping up for the goal and then calming back down
with a great big 'Ooooooh' when it was seen not to be.

Germany continued well and the masses' spirits remained high. They
relished ridiculing a shirt changing Brazilian who had forgotten the
fundamentals of dressing. We were all drinking and laughing and
clapping. All was good for Germany in the World of the Cup.

Then, that terrible moment arrived. It would have to happen one day.
Germany's infallible goal keeper finally failed. He stopped the ball
when it was heading for goal, but allowed it to spill out of his, the
safest of, hands and into the path of an attacking Brazilian. It hit
the net as soon as he dropped it. A goal for Brazil.

At once, all fell ill. They turned away from the screen and buckled
over, facing the ground. A few tears welled around me to my surprise.
It was not what I had expected from the steely Germans, but their team
had played so well and promised so much that they had let down their
guards. Now they thought it was over.

Soon enough, they knew it to be so. Brazil scored again. This time the
reaction was less emotional. They had time to adjust to the hurt and
prepare for the end.

For many, it was already the end. With still ten minutes to go, they
started to leave. They left in a quiet shuffle as if about to attend to
a bitter task that could no longer wait: the task of wallowing in the
misery of loss.

The minutes ticked down and the morbid procession grew. There was a
sniff of a late German goal, but it hardly mattered. Some of those
leaving did not even look up.

I have seen a lot of losses all around Europe and written about all
manner of pain, but none took it so stoically as the Germans did at
that final whistle. They did not sit or sniffle or run about wailing.
They simply gathered themselves and sucked it up like good
Germans.

I worked my way against the tide, heading towards my balcony table. I
wanted once more to admire the view and quietly reflect on the
remarkable month I had lived.

I watched the crowd settling now. Some stayed for the presentation.
Most were gone.

It was over. The World Cup was finally over. Once again, my life would
be mine. No more running from country to country. At last I could
rest.

The emotion was overwhelming. I sat at my table on the balcony,
clasping my note pad and I started to cry.

I cried in relief and in joy.

I shed a tear my mind and my body, so weary. More for my partner's
birthday passing me by and more again for my travel writing dreams now
further realised.

I cried for Germany. I cried for Brazil. I cried for the Game.

My new friend appeared at my side.

"What's the matter, Mr Sucha? Are you a Germany fan?"

"No, Mr Suchiend... just a football fan... just a football fan."

________________________________________________________________________

test

In an average day during June 2002, I travelled almost four hundred
kilometres over the course of eight hours, watched an hour of football
and had a beer in a pub, spent four hours in an Internet caf?, wrote
almost one thousand words, shed two hundred and fifty grams and spent
one hundred euros.

Countries: 12

Games: 15

Wins: 4

Losses: 7

Draws: 4

Goals: 32

Pubs: 33

Beer brands: 16

Trains: 38

Buses: 8

Ferries: 3

Planes: 4

Kilometres: 11,572

Travel time: 245 hours

Words written: 29,308

Internet time: 130 hours

Weight loss: 7-8 kilograms

Cost: Unknown, but estimated to be GPB2000 or AUD$5,500 or US$3,000 or
EUR$3,100 or far too much

http://www.anthonyjucha.com/