2 Little Cards

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In 2005, as preparations for the 2006 World Cup intensified and the construction of the Allianz Arena accelerated, the entire Bayern Munich club was fully focused on this monumental project. Consequently, the club’s annual general meeting was postponed until January 16th.

At this meeting, the club decided to build a new youth training center in the north of Munich. From the traditionally tightly guarded treasury, Bayern released a staggering sum of seventy million euros in a single stroke, deposited into a dedicated account. They vowed to construct, within five years, one of the world’s most advanced and modern youth academies, on par with the stadium itself — not only to attract local children near Munich but also to open international markets and secure promising young talents early on.

Joy filled the meeting room, buoyed by the miraculous progress of German workers’ relentless effort, and mainly driven by increased budgets. The construction of the Allianz Arena was accelerated by a full six months ahead of the original plan, which had anticipated completion by early 2006. This meant that by the end of the season, by August, and at the start of the new season, Bayern would possess one of the most modern and advanced football stadiums in the world.

The stadium was already more than half completed, standing magnificently in the northern part of the city. On weekends, many Bayern fans would drive out just to catch a distant glimpse of the new stadium, imagining what it would feel like to watch matches inside it.

Bayern’s main base was on Säbener Street in southeast Munich, while Uli Hoeneß and Karl-Heinz Rummenigge lived in the western part of the city. Yet for the past few months, every morning, they would first drive north to check on the stadium before heading southeast to work, as if playing a game of “Chairman’s Magical Tour of Munich.” Upon return, they excitedly shared updates with everyone:

“We have a unique color-changing canopy! It can turn red, blue, or white — representing Bayern Munich, 1860 Munich, and the German national team colors respectively. God, this is one of a kind worldwide! Honestly, I don’t even want to share the stadium with 1860 anymore; it should belong only to us, only to Bayern!”

“We have the most advanced facilities, including top-tier turf, three large locker rooms, fieldside lights that even illuminate the grass at night, and giant TV screens hanging all around!”

“The stadium will seat 75,000 fans — my God, even God would gape in amazement! And we’ve stood at the highest points; the view is so clear!”

“The VIP seats even have heating — imagine how comfortable that will be in winter...”

“There are so many food areas now; I want to stock them all with white sausages —”

“You can’t imagine how huge the parking lot is. Are we really not wasting municipal land? Forget it, maybe in ten years everyone will have two cars.”

More and more people joined these tours, eagerly going to see the breathtaking new stadium, their spirits lifted with hope, almost smiling without realizing it. Such a triumphant mood — “Bayern Munich, this is what you can achieve! So damn awesome!” — inspired the entire club's desire for reform. At this annual meeting, with Rummenigge’s full support, an energized Chairman Hoeneß finally approved several long-discussed projects — all related to the new construction.

The vision was beautiful: an era of transformation, a time of continuous European Union prosperity, globalization, and a period when all of Germany invested in football infrastructure. It was also the era for Bayern to set sail on a new course. Yet, this new era was like fueling a furnace with gold; pursuing ideals and greatness was incredibly expensive. Consecutive mega-projects pained the club’s financial chairman so deeply that it is said he cried over three contracts before finally signing.

What made him weep was not only the exorbitant youth training center but also the Säbener Street redevelopment plan. The center had already begun constructing a new service building so that several long-separated departments, such as the newly established International Management Department, could return to the main base to reunite and come under the direct leadership of the temperamental Chairman Hoeneß.

“I can’t even see them every day, yet I have to pay their salaries and buy their equipment?!” He once jumped on the rooftop in frustration.

Building a new office was indeed urgent. The expanding club's operations were cramped in an old administrative building, a symmetrical white structure with red trim, which was already outdated. After the new service center’s completion, it would be refurbished to house some of the more trivial business.

Currently, all senior management offices, marketing, and admissions departments were squeezed onto the third floor of the old building. The second floor housed the International Relations Department, Sponsorship Affairs, and Event Marketing. The first floor and basement were cramped with the women’s team, IT department, and locker rooms for the reserve and U19 youth teams.

Of course, the men’s professional team, as a revenue center, had its own dedicated facilities. With the rapid development of the women’s team — now a fully structured system with a two-tier youth training setup like the men — the squad was rapidly expanding. Munich was full of girls chasing football dreams, and one large locker room was no longer sufficient.

The girls would not continue to crowd in this mismatched administrative building; their new premises were under construction and would be ready next season.

For now, only the men’s reserve and U19 players remained confined underground.

The youth training offices were squeezed into a corner on the first floor, with the youth director able to visit the basement anytime and coaches able to come upstairs. The youth players dreamed of “going upstairs,” often imagining a “heavenly elevator” in the locker room that would lift them directly to the offices of Hoeneß or Rummenigge above, where the two fatherly figures would smile kindly, holding a pen — symbolizing their call-up to the first team.

A professional contract, a contract from Bayern — oh, the mere thought made many nearly giggle themselves into walls before sinking onto the floor.

Today’s training had ended, as had the coach’s speech. The youth director appeared, mentioning an upcoming charity match, urging the players to promote it to their families and friends and to buy as many tickets as possible.

The underground locker room was dim despite two rows of lights — too many people and the stifling atmosphere made the air hazy and oily. The players noisily flooded back to the locker room to shower, change clothes and shoes, and pack bags. It was neither dirty nor chaotic — the youth system was strict about discipline; otherwise, it would have fallen apart long ago.

Karl had already showered and changed. As captain of the reserve team and the most promising player, he was the closest to sunlight in this underground space. No one dared disturb or offend him. Even in the communal shower, attempts at verbal provocations were easily subdued by the calm, unhurried glare from Karl’s lifted eyelids, causing offenders to shrink back sheepishly.

He stood slowly buttoning his shirt in front of his narrow locker. His golden hair obediently covered his forehead, long eyelashes drooping as if lost in thought. This was the uniform of his private liberal arts school, with its peculiar tiny pearl buttons and meticulously tailored fit, the delicate fabric under the lights seeming to express his subtle incongruity with the noisy team.

Newcomers often disliked him. His innate wealthy-guy air was unwelcome in this mostly middle-class team sport. He spoke little to strangers, prompting suspicions of cold arrogance; some thought he secretly complained to private school classmates about the “poor vibes” of his teammates.

Yet, it was precisely this first impression — a bit sour, a bit unsettling — that made people surprised, flattered, and slightly embarrassed when Karl later revealed his calmness, stability, and maturity. His true admiration came from his sharp tackles and unflinching fists in fights.

With a clever mind, good character, and formidable fists, he earned genuine respect, winning over seventy percent of votes in the captain’s election. This winter, he would turn eighteen. In his eighteen years, starting from age three or four in kindergarten football, he had never once lost the captaincy.

If this were a decade later, he would be considered fortunate — the kind of perfect worker adored by picky HR managers: twenty-two years old with eighteen years of experience. But at this moment, despite his achievements, coaches and directors often looked at him with affectionate eyes, scrutinizing him, yet a professional contract was nowhere in sight — not even a hint.

Everyone believed Karl was the least likely to worry. Unlike other positions that peak early, central defenders often peak around twenty-eight or twenty-nine. Players like him would never lack clubs to play for; at worst, they could train for a few years before returning. He might even inherit the family business or attend university to become an executive and make big money. Karl’s life path seemed like Napoleon’s — winning wherever he went.

But no one knew he was truly anxious, desperately so.

Yet he could only lower his lashes and slowly twist those damn exquisite buttons.

Karl was indeed thinking, contemplating the charity match just mentioned by the youth director. The story began when Bayern legend Mark van Bommel’s mother club, Fortuna Sittard, faced a severe financial crisis. After the winter transfer window, they would be unable to pay player salaries. Even after selling most of their first team, they couldn’t make ends meet.

So Bayern urgently arranged a charity match with the Dutch club, covering all costs while the proceeds would go entirely to the other side. The match was scheduled for the end of the month.

Supporting the home of a club legend was both generous and righteous. The news was hailed as wonderful. The entire first team enthusiastically participated, with stars starting and playing the full match. The newspapers praised the gesture, and the club was charged with an atmosphere akin to a “Voice of Life” event.

This was an important diplomatic match for the club. Not buying tickets was practically a sign of disrespect; not loving van Bommel or sympathizing with the struggling Fortuna Sittard was unthinkable. Tickets had to be bought in bulk, fast, before they sold out. The team was abuzz: “How many tickets are you getting? Don’t be stingy; bring your little brother too!” “I’m not stingy! My brother’s only three; he won’t understand...” Some teased others about worn shin guards, and a scuffle broke out, ending with one packing his stuff and grumbling.

Karl considered the ticket prices, sighed inwardly, and then set the issue aside, turning his attention to the upcoming German Cup match.

The open format and the reserve team’s outstanding performance this year, combined with a stroke of luck in the draw, led to a small piece of Bundesliga history: they would face Bayern’s own first team directly.

Such an “internal battle” had never occurred before. Everyone knew the first team would win, the reserves would lose, and the match was essentially a valuable 90-minute training session. But Karl took it very seriously.

Everyone said he would be promoted to the first team, yet the season was already more than halfway over, and he had received no contract or even a whisper of one, indicating he was not on the shortlist.

For most players, a loan to another club for two years before returning was acceptable — being a starter elsewhere and returning as a starter on a bigger contract was better than wasting youth on the bench. But for Karl, it wasn’t an option. He needed to stay at Bayern, and only at Bayern.

He desperately needed to prove himself and perform, perhaps even more than anyone else. He, like everyone, longed for the “heavenly elevator,” sometimes so much it teetered on despair.

He was lost in thought until a football lightly but firmly struck his calf, snapping him back. He looked left, seeing Thomas Müller standing there—tall and lean, hair tousled, delicate features, bright eyes, round ears—with a wide, cheerful grin like a happy monkey. His golden-brown hair shimmered under the overhead lights like a golden bear’s fur.

Compared to peers, Müller was lean and youthful in appearance. Wearing loose jersey and shorts, he looked even more slim and fresh. He had obviously sneaked over from the U19 squad to the reserve team’s row to play around, as usual, since no one minded his wandering. Karl smiled faintly, deftly hooked the ball back to his feet, then gently kicked it back to him.

He was already quite precise and light-footed, but the locker room was chaotic. The ball wasn’t seeking anyone, but people sought the ball. Just as Müller reached to catch the arcing ball, Toni Kroos suddenly appeared, asking if he was leaving or not. His smooth movement, like a young seal charging at the ball, increased the ball’s force on impact. Kroos stood dazed, clearly not understanding what had happened.

Where did that weapon come from?

What happened?

Did I get a concussion?

It took him two seconds to clutch his head and frown.

“Oh, no,” Müller shouted repeatedly. Karl hurried over to apologize, but Kroos, either in pain or suppressing anger, pursed his lips and refused to answer. When Karl tried to check for swelling with a handkerchief, Kroos suddenly jerked his hand away, blocking his face and sharply saying:

“Don’t touch my head!”

People around teased him about being too sensitive. Müller refused to show his head to anyone, Karl included. “You allergic to the captain, huh?” Karl quickly pushed them away and apologized again to Kroos, promising to be more polite next time.

“I’ll go with you to the medical room, okay?”

Kroos, clearly annoyed, said nothing, still holding his face tightly, grabbed his bag, and left abruptly.

Karl and Müller exchanged glances.

“Give me a number,” Karl said, spreading his palm. “I’ll call his family.”

“No one knows Toni’s family number,” Müller shook his head, disappointed, resting his head in his hands. “His exact words were, ‘Please don’t bring club issues home.’ He’s a bit cool and a bit strange, right?”

Though he knew he shouldn’t laugh, Karl couldn’t help it. He lifted Müller’s head and, together, they packed up to go home. Youth players always left through the back door — the busiest time on that path was after training, less so before.

The street was filled with shouting and honking cars. Schoolbags and footballs flew everywhere, mothers’ heels clacked as they scolded or gasped. Some kids cried loudly or argued over lost new balls or training conflicts.

Karl had never been part of this noisy crowd. He usually wore headphones, letting music drown out the world, quietly passing through it. Until one day, Thomas Müller suddenly appeared from behind.

“Sorry, did I scare you? Did I put my hand down too hard? Sorry. I’m Thomas — Thomas Müller. Since U15, no one shares my name. We’re always one level apart, playing on neighboring fields. You know me, I know you know me... Wait, you know me, right? You smiled at me, right? You kicked the ball back when it went out, right? That wasn’t a dream, was it? Hey, say something, please!”

He was the most talkative person Karl had ever met. Karl opened his mouth, then suddenly remembered he hadn’t removed his headphones, hurriedly yanked them off, and the noisy world and bright Müller flooded in like a high-definition children’s cartoon. Karl was suddenly at a loss for words:

“You, you shouldn’t stand on the curb. Be careful not to sprain your ankle.”

That was the most awkward conversational opening Karl had ever uttered — telling someone not to sprain their ankle.

Good heavens!

His quiet walk home was officially over.

Karl used to walk with Mats Hummels, whom he had known for years. Their relationship was peculiar — they never became friends to the point of visiting each other’s homes or exchanging phone numbers. Their relationship was “club-only,” much like Kroos described.

This was rare in youth training. Kids naturally wanted to play together, but Karl and Hummels simultaneously defied this nature — an astonishing coincidence.

On the field, they were the perfect central defensive pairing. Off the field, they were each other’s biggest rivals, and not quite evenly matched. Karl was always a step ahead, so it was natural for Hummels to dislike him. But bizarrely, after training, Hummels would pack up and wait for Karl to leave together, using a mean-boy’s disdainful glare to intimidate him.

Hummels wasn’t as handsome as Karl, but puberty was his advantage. Taller and stronger, his brown eyes had a wild animal’s stare that intimidated less confident peers.

He quickly drove away all of Karl’s usual companions, not leaving a single one.

Yet they never spoke a word on the way home, parting like strangers at the subway station.

Despite the oddity, Karl grew used to it, until this season when Hummels no longer wanted to stay at Bayern — or rather, his father gave up. With Karl as a strong rival, Hummels’ prospects at Bayern were slim, so his father grit his teeth and took him to Dortmund, which proved effective. Karl’s future remained uncertain here, but Hummels was reportedly highly regarded there, nurtured as a key talent.

Losing him left Karl inexplicably empty for a while, like a hollow space on the road. Though, aside from a brief friendship when they first met, they hadn’t spoken much afterward.

Before long, a new “monkey-like” junior replaced Hummels.

Karl was two years older than Müller, a perfect gap for youth team grouping. Despite years at the same club and familiarity, they had never formally interacted, not even introductions, until Müller, at seventeen, moved up to the U19 — and the reserve and U19 teams shared locker rooms.

Only then, after six years of mismatch, did Müller and Karl step onto the same stage.

They walked home together for half a season. But after moving, Karl no longer took the usual direct route with most people to Wettersteinplatz station for the U1 subway.

His new route involved a three-minute walk past Grödner Street, through a green forest, reaching Kurz Street, then taking the tram lines 15 or 25 to the U2 Silberhornstrasse station. On nice days, he might walk all the way. Either way, it took at least 25 minutes, much longer than the direct U1 route.

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Originally, Karl, Müller, and most others shared the same route. Sometimes, if Kroos was slow and hadn’t left yet, the three would go together. Kroos was as silent as Hummels, never speaking; the air usually carried Müller’s lively chatter and Karl’s gentle responses and laughter. Whenever Karl noticed this, he’d glance at Kroos, who would glare at him and then turn away.

“Do they really dislike me? Why?” Karl felt uneasy but never expressed it.

After moving, Karl began walking alone. The next day was Saturday, training all day. He habitually arrived earliest but was caught off guard by Müller waiting for him — living far away with reduced weekend trains, Müller had to leave one and a half hours earlier to catch the early RB train. Today he had clearly gotten up early to confront Karl.

Karl’s good habits helped Müller. The empty locker room was perfect for shouting.

Müller, like a creditor, occupied Karl’s seat, legs apart, hands on knees, fuming like a furious young bull. Hearing footsteps, he jumped up, both aggrieved and angry, demanding to know where Karl had been the previous day. He had dragged Kroos around looking for him for an hour and almost called the police! The coach had to call Karl’s home to find out he left alone!

No wonder the coach called unexpectedly last night to ask if Karl was home. Karl was stunned but instinctively apologized: “Sorry, I just moved, so I take a different route now. I thought I told you…”

He was lying — he hadn’t told anyone and especially didn’t want Müller to know, so he ran off alone to avoid questions and concern. He wished everyone would be like Hummels, silently coming and going. But this tactic didn’t work on Müller, who confronted him only hours later.

Karl had to confess, and Müller, previously angry, suddenly seemed embarrassed and didn’t forgive him instantly but rather forgot why he was mad:

“Ah, sorry, when did you say this? Did I miss it? I must have missed it… Damn, I knew my constant talking would get me into trouble one day. Are you having a party for moving? Can I come?”

His ability to derail conversations was impressive.

Karl laughed, didn’t answer about the party, affectionately put down his bag, and started packing, asking if Müller had anything else. Müller quickly remembered and raised his eyebrows again:

“So how are you getting home now?”

“U2 subway, but…” Karl began.

“I’m coming with you.”

Müller was resolute, ignoring any cost, sealing the deal on this new homecoming contract and instantly brightening, spinning and jumping in the locker room. When Kroos arrived, Müller, full of energy, begged him to play leapfrog but was quickly smacked into silence.

Karl couldn’t help but smile mysteriously while changing socks.

Müller was willing to walk the longer route, but Kroos clearly would not join, so “the way home” was now just the two of them, as usual today.

No matter how cold, Müller insisted on training shorts. Although he wore a down jacket, his exposed thin legs turned red from the cold, whining at every breeze. It was still early night; under street lamps, he stomped and wailed about freezing. Karl struggled to tighten his scarf amid Müller’s springy movements. When Müller noticed people stopping to watch, he suddenly felt fearless, dancing comically like a little pony, making passersby laugh.

Karl usually tolerated Müller’s antics with a smile, but sometimes, like today, he worried about being photographed by bored reporters and labeled “Bayern youth players’ puzzling mental state,” so he hurriedly pulled him away.

At Silberhornstrasse station, warmth spilled out from within, the most comforting thing. They never took escalators but ran lightly down gray stairs, turning even short distances into subtle competitions. Sometimes Karl was clearly faster, hearing Müller panting behind, causing him to stop laughing. Müller insisted he didn’t want Karl to wait for him but joyfully declared himself the champion.

Karl mischievously tipped an imaginary hat and bowed, and they laughed all the way down into the subway, then waited for their respective trains. Müller took U2 to Central Station, then RB6 regional train home to Weilheim Oberbay, where he cycled home, though in winter, his parents always picked him up to avoid him speeding through the village.

Back then, no one imagined Deutsche Bahn would become frequently late, which was a good thing.

Karl took the U2 in the opposite direction home.

He always let Müller board first. Today, Müller performed sixty different mime acts at the door before the alarm finally stopped him, and he stepped in, leaning against the glass, smiling brightly and waving goodbye.

They waved until neither could see the other.

The brand-new silver-blue U2 train, marked with bright signs, left with a gust of cold wind, clearing the platform of people and children’s bright colors. Karl shivered, hugging himself, unsure where the chill came from.

He turned, took the elevator down to the opposite platform, arriving exactly three minutes before the next train.

From then on, time seemed to slow and thicken. Cold gusts blew through the tunnel. The U2 line hadn’t fully switched to new trains yet, so in the evening, old cars were often used to ease the rush. Karl always seemed unlucky to get the old, worn-out cars.

At the appointed time, the old, dark gray train, battered and scarred, screeched into the station. Passengers hammered malfunctioning buttons to open the doors, then stepped on board.

The interiors were dimmer, seats sagged from years of use, and despite cleaning, the air still smelled of old dust. The station was large, with many people exiting and boarding. Karl never sat, disliking proximity to others or sitting in a four-seat facing arrangement, awkwardly exchanging glances with tired old men.

He put on wired earphones and held a high strap, zoning out. As the train moved, outside was always pitch black except when stopping.

The day’s soreness and fatigue pressed on him, urging him to sit, but he only found a free, isolated seat one or two stops before home.

This was life’s kindness — a few peaceful minutes before he had to stand again.

After exiting, he walked another ten minutes in the cold. Night had fallen. He returned to his drab apartment building. Even a robust athlete like him had to pinch his fingers red to pull the stubborn, iron door open, which seemed fused to its lock. The elevator was broken again, and the stairwell light was unreliable.

Though embarrassed to admit it, Karl was afraid of the dark. Now eighteen, facing this situation, he had no choice but to hesitate briefly at the dark stairwell and then start climbing.

The building was old and somewhat remote but close to a rehabilitation center and affordable — much cheaper than the large flat his mother insisted on after the divorce. So Karl had no complaints.

No matter what, home was still home, even if smaller and dimmer, the yellow light still felt comforting.

He entered, dropped his bag, took off his shoes, and tossed them in the cramped bathroom to wash later. Only then did he feel he could relax.

His stomach’s hunger pangs pierced through, and he held his belly, hearing it growl.

After a moment, his mother Erika emerged from the living room. Once quite attractive, Karl’s sister Lyra resembled her but had become softer with age, her petite frame giving her a sharpness not common among peers, which troubled her.

She was already in loungewear, her blonde hair streaked with new brown growth, messy and hanging behind her neck. Her slouched shoulders and drooping brown eyes made Karl instinctively tense. He wanted to explain he’d wash his shoes later and didn’t immediately notice that she needed to wash her hands — but she said nothing, so his explanation remained unspoken, like a loaded bullet in his gut.

Erika seemed tired, and the cigarette appeared to engulf her in self-pity. Perhaps she had just cried while flipping through old photo albums, which softened her toward the world. She softly said, “You’re back? Look after Lyra, eat whatever you want. The fridge is empty; go to Lidl by the subway if you need.”

But on seeing Karl’s soft golden hair and blue eyes, she returned to reality, frowned, curled her lips, took another drag, and said disdainfully, “Why is your hair like that again? Too yellow, not good. It looked better yesterday.”

Genetics were absurd. Though she bore him through hardship, Karl resembled his father in every way — except his aura lacked the confidence to bask in the spotlight, lacked blind arrogance, and the flamboyance that required such arrogance.

Karl was always the model son.

A model son who couldn’t answer such questions. He stood silently, lowering his head, trying to blend his face with shadows and hair, patiently enduring the subtle lashings of his mother’s resentment toward his father.

Erika fell silent, seemingly lost in thought. The cigarette almost burned her hand before she snapped out of it, reminding Karl not to stay up late and to work hard in training tomorrow.

“How was Lyra’s checkup today?” Karl asked softly, changing the subject to what concerned him most.

“So-so,” Erika said gloomily, neither knowing nor wanting to know. She had no intention of showing Karl the report.

“Karl, my dear Karli…” She suddenly burst into tears. “It’s already February. When will they let you join the first team? When will you get a contract? You’re all I have left. Lyra too.”

Knowing the family’s hardships, Karl should comfort his struggling mother, embrace her, and be the man she needed — just as easily as he did at the club. But for some reason, he stiffened in resistance.

He feared his mother’s tears, which felt like thousands of cold crawling insects on him. He feared her hands, fearing they would clutch him like a drowning person grasping a lifebuoy.

Yet he felt guilty — or rather, powerless to comfort her, which made him feel worse. He could only try to find ways in reality: do more housework, get more A+s, train harder, or promise her that it would soon come.

But those methods felt so weak and futile.

“When is ‘soon’?”

“Maybe summer…” He saw intense disappointment on her face, then recklessly painted the best-case scenario: “Maybe next month, we’ll play against the first team in the German Cup.”

“I don’t want to hear about those matches, Karl. I don’t want to hear it. I’m tired. What good is one match? The last friendly, you said they liked you, but now? They’re just lying to you, wasting your youth. You could already be playing professionally in the third or second division at seventeen. You could be a pro, a star, because you’re better than all of them, you know? You can move up later, but you’ve been held back.”

Her voice lowered as tears fell again. Her face, framed by dim yellow light, bore tight tear stains — a sad, not quite beautiful face growing darker: “Enough, I won’t say more. You’ll get annoyed and think I don’t understand, just like your father.”

This sharp remark pierced Karl deeply. No matter what, he loved her — that was undeniable — but she clearly didn’t believe that love. She broke away, slamming the door.

A sharp, long, uncontrollable cry followed.

His mother’s crying made him forget his own pain — his pain was nothing; her pain was the real thing. He anguished over his failure to bring her happiness.

He stood in the bathroom washing his hands, fighting trembling. Inside, a voice scolded him for not opening that door to comfort her, for not getting that damn contract, for waiting endlessly for the “heavenly elevator” instead of playing in lower leagues — leaving Bayern, perhaps shattering his dreams, or perhaps not.

If he went to another Bundesliga or second division club, he’d earn three thousand euros a week, not just three thousand a month. Then his mother wouldn’t cry when he came home.

Why was he like his father — selfish, unwilling to love her unreservedly, hurting her?

That thought stabbed his heart even harder than his mother’s tears. He wanted to cry but held it back because he hadn’t seen his sister yet. He couldn’t delay any longer. Lyra must have heard him come home, heard the door slam, and though she probably couldn’t hear their quiet conversation, she must have been scared by the red eyes waiting for him.

He breathed deeply for ten minutes to calm his shaking hands. He told himself to think later, quickly cleaned his football boots, placed them near the heater to dry (to hide them from his mother, who might get upset if she saw), washed his hands and face, applied hand cream, warmed and softened his hands, meticulously checked his reflection, adjusted his hair, and finally knocked on his sister’s bedroom door.

From inside came a happy, soft voice: “Come in!”

Lyra was eight, ten years younger than Karl, lively and adorable. Despite the family’s downturn since her illness, she complained little, facing everything with innocent optimism — partly because she didn’t yet know life’s harshness.

She had almost completely lost the use of her legs and needed a wheelchair outside, though medical care was free, nursing and rehab were prohibitively expensive.

But this wasn’t why they sold their old house and car, which Karl always told her.

Lyra was already in bed, reading the picture book “Little Rabbit Karl.” Because the protagonist shared Karl’s name, he had both loved and resisted the series since childhood, always hopping around saying, “I’m not a rabbit,” while their younger mother laughed and said, “No, Karl, you are Little Rabbit!”

For Lyra, it was her favorite book, never tiring of it. Her only complaint was the author didn’t include her, so she often banged the book with her little hands, shouting:

“Bad book! No Lyra!”

Since his early teens, Karl had been inventing stories to include her.

He gently sat by her bed. She had closed the book and stretched out her arms. Now, finally in reach, she happily kissed his cheek.

The “Little Rabbit Karl” series had many volumes, from the 1980s to present, continuously updated due to popularity. But this was an old copy, passed down to Lyra and worn, its spine and pages nearly detached. Thinking of the series’ new editions made Karl sad, so he kissed her cheek too.

They talked about Lyra’s day at school. Karl cautiously asked if anyone bullied her because of her wheelchair. She shook her head, saying teachers stayed with her and everyone was kind, which comforted him.

He started gently brushing her tangled hair after the bath, applying oil — the caregiver was rushing off, and his mother was increasingly inattentive to such details.

Lyra then insisted on a story.

“Once upon a time, Father Rabbit, Mother Rabbit, Little Rabbit Karl, and sister Lyra lived happily together...”

“No, no,” Lyra shook her head, pointing at the book. “I want to hear about your adventures outside! Even though I stay home, I want to know how you live out there! But don’t forget to include me.”

“All right, all right,” Karl smiled, reading as she requested: “Once upon a time, there was a little rabbit named Karl who lived in a beautiful forest. Karl had a beloved sister, Little White Rabbit Lyra, and every day he told her stories...”

Lyra immediately played along seriously: “Brother, what story are you telling today?”

“Today’s story is about Little Rabbit Karl’s adventures! He was brave and kind. He dreamed of becoming the forest’s hero, protecting everyone.”

“Little White Rabbit asked, ‘Brother Karl, will you protect me?’”

“Little Rabbit Karl said, ‘Of course, I’ll protect you forever.’”

Lyra’s attention shifted from her hair pain to fully immersing herself: “Brother, I will protect you forever too.”

Karl kissed her forehead softly and whispered, “Thank you, darling.” Then continued: “One day, Little Rabbit Karl decided to leave the warm home to explore the outside world. He entered the forest, where tall trees and mysterious paths awaited.”

“Little White Rabbit asked, ‘Are you scared, Brother Karl?’”

“Little Rabbit Karl said, ‘A little, but for you and everyone, I will be brave.’”

“In the forest, Little Rabbit Karl met many new friends — a clever squirrel, a strong bear, a kind pig, a grumpy cat, and many more...”

Lyra bit her finger, exclaiming, “How wonderful! I knew you’d have lots of friends!”

“The squirrel asked, ‘Karl, will you adventure with us?’”

“Little Rabbit Karl said, ‘Of course, I’m happy to have you with me.’”

“They went through many adventures together, crossing rivers and climbing mountains.”

“Little White Rabbit Lyra asked, ‘Brother Karl, did you face any difficulties?’”

Lyra said, “Oh no, why would you have difficulties?”

“Don’t be afraid,” Karl whispered, “Little Rabbit Karl said, ‘Yes, but we overcame every difficulty together because friends were around and I had my best sister, Little White Rabbit Lyra.’”

“As time passed, Little Rabbit Karl became the hero everyone admired. Whenever the forest was in danger, people thought of him. They said, ‘Karl, we need your help.’ And Little Rabbit Karl replied, ‘I will do my best because I am the forest’s guardian.’”

“But gradually, Karl felt very tired because he was always helping others and almost forgot himself.”

Lyra was already angry: “How could you do that? Then don’t be a hero!”

“Little White Rabbit Lyra asked, ‘Brother Karl, why do you look so tired?’”

“Little Rabbit Karl said, ‘Because being a hero is hard, but I can’t give up.’”

“That’s true,” Lyra softened, “We still have to learn to persevere.”

How funny his sister was! She was so engaged it made Karl happy. He smiled and turned the page, telling the story with more energy: “One day, Little Rabbit Karl met an ancient tree spirit, who was actually Little White Rabbit Lyra in disguise.”

“Wow, I’m so awesome!”

“The tree spirit Lyra said, ‘Karl, true courage isn’t just protecting others, but also protecting yourself and accepting help.’”

“Little Rabbit Karl said, ‘But I’m used to everyone depending on me. What should I do?’”

“The tree spirit Lyra gave Karl a magic leaf and said, ‘When you feel lost, find me. This leaf will guide you.’”

“Little White Rabbit Lyra asked worriedly, ‘Brother Karl, will you find the tree spirit?’”

“Little Rabbit Karl said, ‘Yes, I want to understand my true strength.’”

“After another big adventure, Little Rabbit Karl felt very tired and confused. He took out the tree spirit’s leaf and found Lyra.”

“The tree spirit Lyra said, ‘Karl, you’ve done well. Now you must learn to accept others’ love and share your burden with them.’”

“Little Rabbit Karl said, ‘I understand. True bravery is not only facing danger but also facing your own heart.’”

“Little Rabbit Karl returned to the forest, no longer carrying the burden alone but sharing joy and sorrow with friends.”

“Friends said, ‘Karl, let’s face it together.’”

“Little White Rabbit Lyra said, ‘Karl, let’s face it together.’”

“Little Rabbit Karl said, ‘Thank you all. It’s great to have you.’”

From then on, Little Rabbit Karl and his friends guarded the forest together, facing difficulties and sharing happiness. Little Rabbit Karl discovered that this was true strength.

Karl finished reading, realized the ending lacked Lyra’s part, so pretended not to have finished and added two sentences:

“Little White Rabbit Lyra asked, ‘Brother Karl, if you stop being a hero, will you still stay with me?’”

“Little Rabbit Karl said, ‘Yes, wherever and whenever, we will face everything together because you are my most beloved sister.’”

Lyra loved this story, her eyes sparkling. Her hair was now smooth and silky, making her purr contentedly like a little animal, tilting her head and smiling at him with honey-brown eyes and crooked teeth. Karl couldn’t help laughing and kissed her forehead again.

“Brother,” Lyra finally whispered, “Did Mom cry just now?”

“…She was just a little sad. It’s my fault,” Karl said softly. “If I played for another club, would you be upset?”

“Of course! Brother, you’re going to be a big star at Bayern!” Lyra pouted. “I even promised my classmates. I’ll sell your autograph at school. Just like in the story — you have to be the big hero.”

Karl chuckled. “Okay, sorry, I’ll work harder.”

By the time he returned to his room, his hunger was sharp, a pure ache like those in TV dramas where people spit blood. But the fridge was half-full of frozen pizza, no fresh vegetables or protein. He dared not eat it.

He blamed himself for rushing home and forgetting to buy groceries. He’d lost the will to go out in the cold and darkness. The long night stretched endlessly, and he still had homework. Soon came the final exams of the autumn-winter semester — his last before graduation.

He had kept good grades for two years but now lacked motivation. Before, report cards were one of the few things that made his mother smile and hug him. She dreamed he’d study finance or medicine, preferably at Munich University or Technical University. No other school was good enough. So he needed good grades.

But now the report card was useless; only a contract with a good salary could save Karl and his family.

He began sorting drawers, tallying money. From a monthly salary of 3,000 euros, after tax, only 1,360 remained. He gave 1,000 to his mother for household expenses, keeping the rest for himself. But with an empty fridge, buying groceries almost exhausted that remainder. He was too embarrassed to remind his mother to shop, fearing it would make her feel like a housekeeper stuck in endless chores, so he chose to save.

He gathered scattered coins totaling 120 euros — charity match tickets were cheaper than usual. Normal seats ranged from 10 to 30 euros, better seats 30 to 50, VIPs targeted the rich and were irrelevant to them. Karl planned to buy a 30-euro ticket to stay with most teammates.

With four in the family, he theoretically needed four tickets as support, though he knew his parents wouldn’t attend, and Lyra couldn’t go. But no one else knew this.

His father, Rolf Heilmann, reluctantly paid high child support and extra tuition fees after the divorce, which allowed Karl to finish private school. The money went directly to his mother’s account, but Karl didn’t know where it all went. He only knew it wasn’t enough. Erika always told him Rolf delayed and withheld payments.

By year-end, Karl would be an adult, and this family’s main income source would end. If he still didn’t have a professional contract by then, who knew how life would go on.

Thinking of this, his hand hesitated over the 120 euros.

Would he even be able to attend? He had been so busy lately — school, exams, graduation, training, matches, mother, sister… Maybe he’d have to accompany Lyra to therapy that week; the schedule wouldn’t be clear until next week.

What if he didn’t buy? Then the coach would doubt and be unhappy, teammates would be surprised. If they thought him stingy or poor, or that his family was in trouble, or if he didn’t love Bayern anymore, or disliked the charity match and thought it a scam — if he bought zero tickets? Really none? If he did buy, would it be only the cheapest 10-euro ticket? For just a few more euros, he could stand much closer.

Bayern’s youth system lacked a grassroots vibe; most kids came from middle-class or well-off families. They didn’t play football to make a living but for love. They had better education, nutrition, physique, emotional stability, and mature social skills, with fallback plans, making success easier.

But sometimes this environment made Karl’s situation awkward.

At his age, on the brink of adulthood, his sense of dignity was strong. He wished he could eat nothing tomorrow and convert all money into tickets, but that was impossible. Despite his strong desire for dignity, he had to swallow it for reality.

He couldn’t spend the money, no matter what others thought. Lowering his head, silently accepting it was the only way.

But he did not put all the money back. He kept 30 euros, planning to buy a new picture book for Lyra tomorrow. He’d save on food and other expenses and scrape together the funds over the month.

After sorting a seemingly small yet heavy matter, Karl felt so tired he could barely keep his eyes open.

Posters of Bayern adorned his room, with neatly hung annual scarves. Opposite his bed hung a poster of Maldini. On his desk were three framed photos — one with his mother and sister, one large team photo of the reserves and U19 at season start, and the third of the U17 World Cup victory. A fourth frame was empty, its photo face down in the bottom drawer. Karl didn’t yet know what to fill that space with.

He sat on the bed, head bowed, packing for tomorrow. Taking out his shin guards, he hesitated, then found an old pair beneath the cabinet. Though he cared for his gear, he hadn’t been sentimental, and his mother wanted to discard them when they moved. But thinking if his current pair broke, these old ones could still serve, he carefully packed them.

Adidas shin guards cost nearly a hundred euros a pair.

He looked at them a moment, wiped them, then put them in his bag, planning to quietly give them to a teammate whose guards were broken — playing hungry was more dangerous. He had no energy to worry about what would happen if his own broke.

He went to do laundry. The washing machine was broken, with no repair in sight, so he washed clothes by hand daily. Thinking of Kroos, he wondered if his head injury was serious. His stomach sank.

His alarm was still unset for tomorrow. He needed to get up early, muddle through schoolwork, though his mind was elsewhere. He didn’t want to disappoint the teachers who liked him and allowed absences for training. He feared their calls or home visits, which would break his mother’s heart.

He thought about roadworks near school and how early he must leave to catch his train on time. Then, waiting for Müller at Silberhornstrasse tram stop — always arriving late but reliably at the same time — gave him comfort. Since Müller began accompanying him on the longer route, Karl looked forward to training even more, greedily spending extra time together.

After throwing clothes into the dryer, he thought of his father. They hadn’t talked properly in a long time. The last time his father drove him to training was a distant memory.

His father once loved him. When he moved out of their big house — the one Karl happily grew up in — he hugged Karl repeatedly, stroking his head and back, crying unlike his usual boisterous laughter. Young Karl was certain of his father’s love and wealth but chose to live with his mother, believing his father was stronger and his mother more vulnerable.

Without him, his mother would die.

But since then, his father saw him less and less. Though he hadn’t had more children, Karl wasn’t sure if he still cared.

If Karl became successful, would his father take him out to dinner again, looking proudly at him?

After drying his hair, Karl turned off the light in Lyra’s room. She was already too sleepy to keep her eyes open, lying like a little angel.

He had just stepped back to the door when she suddenly whispered in the dark, soft and small, like the wind might carry her words away:

“Karli, you must remember, Karli… even if you never become a big star, I will always love you.”

Karl’s nose tingled. He controlled his voice gently, “I love you too, Lyra… good night.”

He vowed to train like a wild dog tomorrow.

Pain, it would pass if endured.

He would surely make the German Cup squad next month against Bayern’s first team. He absolutely had to play well in that match. Absolutely.

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