6 Small Cards

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Flashback to 2005, young Karl’s recollection.
He received two tickets but ultimately didn’t use either.
It wasn’t that he was being pretentious or anything; rather, he simply had no use for them. After the coach announced the final squad for the German Cup and everyone finished their tea, he returned with exciting unexpected news.

Due to some incident with the charity match, the club decided to pull some staff from the youth training program to help out—essentially as equipment managers: mainly responsible for transporting ball crates, tending the pitch, organizing the locker rooms, and such.

Unlike today, back when Karl was a kid joining the team, it was still common to carry things for the older kids; not having to clean shoes was already considered decent Bayern culture. At that time, being given such tasks wasn’t a burden but an honor—it meant they could get close to the first team players and even stand at the back of the locker room like the other staff, watching players sitting and the coach puffing out his chest as he spoke proudly.

Compared to that, buying tickets to watch a match was nothing.
Moreover, they would be paid a decent hourly wage—for a match covering pre-game, during, and post-game, accounting for at least five hours of work, which meant a considerable sum of pocket money. The young players practically drooled at the prospect.

Though many had been ball boys holding hands or standing at the sidelines ready to retrieve balls, none had truly participated in the work during a match before, so everyone was very excited. There were three spots, but it was tacitly understood only two would be chosen.

Inevitably, the coach turned to the middle seats and called out Karl’s name first again. The coach was careful not to show too much favoritism towards him to avoid making things awkward in the locker room, so he deliberately scolded him: “Karl, you’re getting more and more like a spoiled brat lately. Don’t think you can run away. This time you have to roll up your sleeves and work hard. I’m punishing you by making you stay behind to mop the floor. Serve your teammates well today, got it?”

Karl raised both hands in surrender, and everyone burst into laughter.

This unexpected kindness from Kroos, who Karl thought disliked him, coupled with the joyous news about the work, made Karl feel his whole day was brightened. Maybe that’s why he felt particularly focused and in great form during training. He even assisted a goal, helping the starting team defeat the substitutes, ending the difficult first half of the intra-squad scrimmage.

Since the German Cup roster had already been announced, they had begun mock drills. This match was a comprehensive showcase of the youth academy’s results, so everyone was united and gave it their all.

The substitute players also tried hard because the match hadn’t happened yet. Although the coach had set the roster, there was always a chance for last-minute changes.

The second goalkeeper in the team was well-coordinated but a mischievous troublemaker, less consistent than the first keeper and not very focused. Now, after a failed save, he knelt on the ground, angrily pounding and complaining, “Since when did tactics include center-backs assisting the left-back? Why are you pushing up? Did the coach tell you to? This is playing all wrong! All wrong!”

The left-back, leaning on Karl’s shoulder, laughed heartily: “What do you know? Didn’t you see how Lahm scored last week?”

The coach shouted from the sidelines, “Stop whining! Take a break now. In the second half, the full-backs swap sides!”

Having the starters play against the substitutes and then randomly swapping some players was a common training method.

The second keeper instantly brightened, no longer in a hurry to get up, kneeling in front of the goal with arms spread wide, loudly declaring, “Ah, nothing in this world can hurt me anymore. Come back, my Karl, my most beloved safe t—”

Karl smiled, standing hands on hips at midfield, and kicked the ball hard beside him. It bounced sharply, brushing his arm, startling him to scramble up quickly.

“Stay there, don’t run around,” Karl shouted back. “My most beloved spring!”

Laughter erupted all over the field.

After training that day, Karl found an excuse to corner Kroos and return the ticket to him—worried that once inside the locker room, he wouldn’t have the chance, and if Müller saw and asked, it would be awkward. Also, oddly enough, although they had “shared hardship” just yesterday and even visited Kroos’s home, which no one else knew about, and Kroos had given him a gift early that morning… today, back at the training ground, they started pretending they barely knew each other again.

Or rather, Kroos was still sending signals that he didn’t want to see or talk to Karl.

Remembering Kroos’s admonition not to say nonsense, Karl didn’t try to interpret Kroos’s cold demeanor today but sincerely thanked him for the book, saying he was touched and would keep it well, promising to repay him when he had money.

“Or, is there something you like?” Karl asked with a smile.

To prevent Kroos from feeling uncomfortable about their subtle height difference, Karl leaned against the windowsill, the height allowing him to look straight into Kroos’s rare winter sunset-lit, translucent, warm blue eyes.

“I don’t need the ticket,” Kroos said, tilting his head, unable to maintain steady eye contact.

Karl proposed a new plan: “Then can I give it to someone else?”

He’d return the ticket money together when he repaid the book.

“Give it to whom?”

“Richard. He lost his wallet on the train and couldn’t buy a ticket. He cried for a long time today.”

“He lost his wallet? What’s that got to do with you? You’re so annoying.”

Being disliked again, Karl couldn’t help but laugh and tilted his head to ask what he should do. Kroos didn’t know how to handle the extra ticket either, just like he couldn’t handle his own feelings. Honestly, though he had given the gift, he couldn’t stand standing so close like this in the club, with Karl casually stretching out his hands against the window, bathed in warm orange sunset light, staring straight at him—why did Karl seem so much more at ease now?

Then something even more foolish happened: Karl pointed to Kroos’s head and said he had grass stuck in his hair.

How unfair the world was; why was he always the one having such embarrassing accidents? Getting hit by the ball, grass growing on his head, slipping loudly by the roadside, failing to catch someone falling and instead tangling his earphones… The more nervous, the more unlucky. What kind of fool must he look like in Karl’s eyes?

Karl saw a patch of grass stuck in Kroos’s hair but didn’t dare touch it, only pointed to it. Kroos’s lips pressed tightly, pinkness rising to his cheeks, looking annoyed. Karl thought this was bad, but to his surprise, Kroos, despite being angry, stepped aside a bit and lowered his head slightly.

Karl was stunned for a moment before realizing and gently brushing the grass off.

The hair was a bit messy, likely crushed during a fall.

Since he was allowed to touch, Karl asked, “Can I touch it again?”

The silence seemed like permission, not refusal, and Karl understood. He gently slid his fingers through the tangled strands, separating them like parting a group of restless little hedgehogs. Kroos’s hair looked like clusters of small spikes but was softer than Karl imagined, unlike Müller’s, which was fluffy and cute but rough to the touch—once when helping Müller put on a hat, he’d felt it coarse and scratchy.

The quiet made the atmosphere strange. Karl thought Müller should be a safe topic and shared this with Kroos, only for Kroos to suddenly swat his hand away.

“I have my own comb, enough,” Kroos said, lowering his lashes, suddenly impatient. “Also, don’t give my ticket away. Don’t return it. If you don’t need it, just throw it in the trash.”

“Is Tony always this quick to anger? No, he’s usually pretty nice, not fond of people but also not prone to anger—except when losing a match.” On the way home, Müller walked backward, grinning at Karl: “What’s up? Did you two argue yesterday when I got off the bus?”

Karl shook his head, not wanting to discuss it further.

Because he had something to look forward to, his life felt a bit happier. The biggest surprise was that the day before the charity match, he finally received a long-awaited call from his father, saying they would meet the next day.

Karl had been very anxious at first, truly unsure how his father would act after so long. Unexpectedly, the man seemed a bit unfamiliar and nervous too. Both were cautious, almost awkwardly greeting each other and sharing recent updates. Yet within this carefulness, a faint illusion of rekindled father-son affection emerged. Rolf, after all, was an adult and quickly found a warm tone, saying:

“Will you come to watch the charity match tomorrow? If you don’t have a ticket, I’ll give you one. If you do, just come up to the second-floor box to find me.”

“Chosen as an equipment manager? That’s only for the coach’s favorite players. When I was your age, I couldn’t even get that chance. You’re such a good kid, that’s awesome, right? Don’t rush, work hard, Dad will wait for you till the end.” Rolf’s voice was full of joy: “It’s settled then, okay? Haven’t seen you in a long time. Dad really misses you, darling.”

The charity match Rolf bankrolled, the one Karl couldn’t recall reading about in the papers despite Müller’s best efforts, was his doing. And Karl had misread the number: it wasn’t a hundred tickets but a thousand. As soon as tickets went on sale, Rolf bought a thousand at full price on behalf of his Hermann Bank, allowing all internal staff to bring two guests each, and the rest went to the media—a grand gesture that drew much attention.

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Tickets cost tens of euros each, so buying a thousand was only a few tens of thousands of euros, but it triggered media frenzy—already paying for itself in publicity. Spending a little for big advertising wasn’t easy; the club usually had to refuse such corporate bulk purchases to prevent seat hoarding. But for this special charity match, they strangely allowed it.

Many said he must have had some inside connections within Bayern to get this unique opportunity.

Karl hadn’t wanted to think about it before, but now he didn’t care. He was too happy to describe in words. At night, lying in bed staring at the Maldini poster on his wall, he couldn’t help but feel the handsome smile was revealing a fatherly kindness, making him want to take the poster down and rest his head against it—just like when he was a child leaning next to his father watching complicated financial reports, hearing him chuckle and tease, “Baby, see? This is all our money!”

Karl didn’t understand assets; he only knew he was lifted and kissed, held in wide, warm arms like sitting in a cradle.

The next day went smoothly. Before the match, they completed all preparations well. Two adult workers, feeling lazy, conveniently dumped all the work on the kids and went off for a smoke.

A large crate of balls weighed about seven or eight kilograms, easy enough to carry, but the challenge was that to protect the grass, they used crates without wheels. Footballs were light, but the crates were huge and heavy; one person couldn’t carry them alone, and two had to lift each.

They had three people to carry three crates, but had to do it three times. Any delay would be disastrous. Karl silently ran out, asking three or four cleaners along the way. The men frowned and shook their heads, walking off. Finally, a lady took him to find a spare cart.

“The small one will do,” she said kindly.

“No,” Karl shook his head. “Can we take the biggest one?”

The biggest was basically unused, so sure. But pushing the largest cart through ninety-degree turns in the corridors was nearly impossible. They blocked the path and people frequently asked why the kids were doing this work.

He and two teammates hurriedly got the three heavy crates full of balls to the sidelines just in time for players’ warm-ups. They were all covered in dust and dirt. The real equipment manager immediately got angry:

“Who taught you to do it like this? Where’s the person in charge?”

The two teammates looked pitiful. Karl wiped his hands and said sincerely: “They left right away, didn’t say what to do. We didn’t want to delay, so we found an unused cart and brought it over. Sorry, sir, we didn’t dare take the small one, afraid someone else might need it.”

They split the wages of the two missing workers, practically making a fortune, nearly howling like wolves in the corridor until Karl covered their mouths. But for the rest of the time, they were extremely happy. After the hard labor of moving ball crates before the match was done, there wasn’t much left—just standing by the locker room and players’ tunnel ready to run errands. This really meant they could personally interact with first-team players.

Players entered the locker room in an orderly, leisurely manner, flanked by staff on both sides. Even Hennes came down early, bustling with the sports director and a group of media staff, clearly aiming to shoot some pre-match handshake photos.

The two who had just been shy stood frozen against the wall, not daring to breathe, eyes glittering as they stared at the chairman’s shiny bald head under the flashlights. At that moment, his smooth forehead didn’t signify age but golden power. Karl seemed a bit better, though he was also a little dazed.

Like many Munich kids, he had been watching Bayern matches on TV since age three. At four, he tagged his little football with red and blue labels and practiced with his dad on the lawn, falling countless times. At five, he became obsessed with football star cards. At six, he loudly begged at the supermarket checkout to buy biscuits with player photos, causing his mother to scream in surprise and scoop him up, while a crowd laughed. Only later did he learn they were contraceptive T-shirts.

The commercial had invited players to endorse the product, hoping to encourage people to drop shame and focus on safety and health. But all the kids like Karl lay on them, and players were teased daily. Soon the clever marketing idea collapsed.

At seven, he passed trials and joined Bayern’s youth academy, a month before starting elementary school.

Karl would never forget that day—wearing the red and blue striped jersey with the crest on the chest, the U9 mark on the right, repeatedly touching them, realizing such small jerseys existed in the world, with his own name on the back—a real jersey made by Bayern for him. From that moment, he felt owned by Bayern, becoming part of the greatness he watched daily. The feeling was magical. He couldn’t help but cry, and when he looked up, his parents were crying too.

Their expressions were proud and complex. His mother told him not to get injured in the academy, and it was okay not to try too hard. His father said, “Karl, I prepared chocolates for every teammate of yours. Give them, tell them your name, be good friends, don’t bully them on the field. If you get bullied, Dad will fight back. Playing happily is more important than winning.”

Ten years had passed since then. Karl had been a ball boy several times and was no stranger to the stadium, but this was his first time seeing Hennes so close in real life. Since he started watching matches, Hennes had been chairman, like a living symbol of Bayern.

Karl didn’t know where he had misstepped but suddenly felt a warm, strong hand press on his shoulder, pulling him back. Turning, he saw the team’s current most popular star: Ballack—tall and strong like a bear entering the tunnel. Karl, who was well-developed himself, immediately seemed smaller next to him. A glance from Ballack made two players behind Karl hold their breath.

His black hair was tousled; his tracksuit jacket nearly fully open; chewing gum in his mouth; lowered brows scanning with an intense scent like cologne or ointment, rising sharply like machine gun fire.

In terms of coolness, every young Munich fan dreamed of having half of Ballack’s spirit—that alone was enough to lift them to the sky.

But after meeting Karl’s gaze, Ballack’s grip slackened, and he stopped grabbing his clothes, just saying, “Watch your step.”

Then he turned and walked on.

Karl thought he was about to be scolded, stood stunned for two seconds, and before he could apologize, a friendly voice came from the narrow corridor behind Ballack:

“Ah, isn’t this Karl? Here to work? That’s great.”

Schweinsteiger appeared, who had been lost in music and nearly tripped over Lahm blocking him, opened his eyes, took off his headphones, and laughed, ruffling Karl’s hair: “Ah, little Karli, long time no see. Wait, not little anymore—have you grown? A lot.”

He measured Karl’s height with his palm from forehead to himself.

Lahm smiled and shook Karl’s hand: “You haven’t forgotten me, right?”

He spoke politely, though stopping to greet Karl was clearly a favor, yet he said, “You haven’t forgotten me, right?”

Anyone else would have nodded their head off nervously. Karl, being socially skilled, blushed but smiled, saying, “Impossible to forget. I see your and Schweinsteiger’s photos on the wall every day. Coaches point to you and say—see them? Even a hundred years from now, you won’t be this good.”

Lahm and Schweinsteiger laughed heartily.

“No, Karl, no,” Lahm said with a smile. “I watched your U17 World Cup last year. Fantastic. I’m sure I’ll see you on the field soon.”

Schweinsteiger tried to hold back laughter: “Really? How do you watch everything, Philipp?”

The laughter and chat drew others to peek over, and they learned Karl was the valued captain of the second team, who had performed well in the second division this year.

No wonder.

In such occasions, youth players were nothing, but Lahm and Schweinsteiger, who came through Bayern’s academy, remained kind and enthusiastic, stopping to greet the youngsters. This was DNA in action and a beautiful thing that made the kids nod and smile. Karl felt his teammates cast envious glances at him, giving him a sense of fortunate guilt, making him act humbly and say little.

Fortunately, they couldn’t linger long. After briefly greeting familiar youth players, they moved on.

Karl’s cheeks burned for a long time and didn’t cool off. Even watching the match, he wondered if one day he too would wear the same jersey and walk into that locker room… If possible, it would be at the Allianz Arena, which he hardly knew—he had only glimpsed it from afar, like a brilliant yet distant dream.

The match was thrilling. Both sides gave their all, without worrying about winning or losing, no dirty tricks—this was true friendship, showcasing skill and spirit, even better and more fluid than many big competitions. In the end, Ballack scored two consecutive World Cup-level decisive goals, spreading his arms, waving to the sidelines, pumping his fists and laughing triumphantly, sending the crowd into screams and stirring Karl’s blood.

After finishing all their tasks, he immediately received a full 120 euros in cash—an incredible sum. Karl couldn’t imagine a more perfect day.

He could even meet his father.

Though the closer he got to the box, the more nervous he became, he held his breath and knocked. When his father appeared at the door, smoking a cigar and wearing a tight, expensive suit, sitting in a large chair and smiling at him, Karl felt his heartbeat fill his ears. He felt so strange yet so familiar—compared to his haggard mother, his father, younger and more spirited thanks to money and career, seemed almost unchanged.

His blond hair still gleamed, only duller like brass, blue eyes still smiling warmly, full of feeling.

As if he still loved him.

“Oh wow, wow, little gentleman, so handsome, just like you. You really startled me.”

But there were many others inside, not just one or two. Karl blinked, realizing this, and Rolf stood up, putting an arm around Karl’s shoulder:

“Why am I so attached to Bayern, friends? Not only because I’ve been a loyal fan since childhood, but because my son, only 17, is already captain of Bayern’s second team. Friends, think about his future…”

Camera flashes erupted incessantly.

It was over. Karl spent the whole night and next day dreaming of fatherly love, which reality shattered in moments. He furiously argued with his father in the small dressing room, demanding deletion of photos and banning news releases, threatening to sue with a community lawyer.

Rolf initially tried to calm him, but when Karl refused to discuss, he lost his composure and shouted, “Can you speak like a man? I put on a show for myself but also to boost your exposure—it’s for your own good! What’s wrong with having a banker father? Why act crazy like your mother? You hate me. You’ve written hateful letters for years. Do you know how that feels? Karl, did your father ever treat you badly? I may have many faults, but I never did wrong to you. Why do you treat me like this?”

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Mom hates him, Dad hates him too.

Karl said, “I didn’t write hateful letters. I don’t even know where you live or where your company moved. You never visit me and you owe me child support…”

“You say I owe child support? Do I have no money, Karl? I owe you child support? In the beginning, I wrote to you every month, wanted to see you every week, but you always chose your mother, never wanted to meet me! I secretly caught you from school and took you to training once, like a criminal. Do you want me to go to court or the police to drag you out of your home?”

“No, you didn’t. I never received anything!”

Rolf’s chest heaved violently twice, opening his mouth in vain to speak but nothing came out. After a long pause, he said:

“Your mother’s crazy. I wanted you to come with me, but you chose her. You chose her. Your mother’s crazy.”

“You drove her crazy.”

Suddenly, Karl understood everything. The suddenness was like daylight bursting open, bringing floods, earthquakes, and years of collapse. What tore so much down were countless small clues he had avoided thinking about, now exposed in a few simple confrontations and conversations.

He had long harbored unbearable resentment toward his mother, but now, an uncontrollable wave of hate and anger crashed down like a tsunami, terrifying even himself. Yet he still wanted to protect her.

He was hurt by her but still wanted to protect her. A child’s love for their mother is the ultimate beyond human imagination. But no one praises a child’s love; people only praise mothers, then fathers. No one understands how strong a child’s love can be, so that even at eighteen, he still painfully stands like a child before much larger, stronger parents—standing opposite one and facing the other.

Rolf said nothing more, just left for a while, then returned, tossing a film canister into Karl’s arms: “Look for yourself. I don’t want to talk to you now, Karl. You’re my only son, always my only son. But that crazy woman? If I were you, I wouldn’t choose wrong again.”

He slammed the door loudly.

Karl didn’t cry; he just felt empty. Suddenly, he couldn’t handle the hatred anymore. He had been too cruel to his mother. Occasionally, the pain was like needles, but he could suppress it. Now, sitting with arms crossed and feet on the toilet seat in the dressing room for half an hour, he couldn’t shed a single tear nor summon any love. Only pure hatred flowed, making him wish he could go home like a madman and shake his mother, asking why she was crazy.

The door opened; someone came in.

Not to use the bathroom, just to wash hands, chat, and light a cigarette.

Voices and the smell of smoke seeped through the wooden boards above and below, enveloping Karl.

“Rolf’s really showing off today. Hennes even specially met with him—it’s true, Hermann Bank is thriving, and his son is playing so well at Bayern, giving him a decent reason to be proud. I guess he’s brought some hidden sponsorship to Bayern, like equipment or turf deals, at least that much.”

“1000? Crazy. Thriving, huh? A few years ago it was all leveraging, now he’s proud.”

“Now he’s big, how could he not be proud? He’s a hard man—I couldn’t learn to be like him.”

“What’s hard about it? Only child, if not him, then who?”

“Oh my, you kill me. Only child? Only daughter! Erika Hermann. You’re young; you don’t know. Old Hermann had a daughter. Not pretty, but rich, so no worries about being ugly. But strange personality, not likeable, gradually stopped socializing. She’s the heir. Rolf is handsome and smart but had a tough life—parents died early. He met Erika, who sponsored him to go to university. At 21, right after graduation, he married 30-year-old Erika. He took her surname.”

“Heavens, just after the money? How could her parents allow that?”

“Wait.”

The speaker stopped, checking nearby stalls to make sure no one was around, then returned to the sink:

“Her parents died, so the marriage was possible. But Erika’s no fool—you wouldn’t guess—after their first son was born, Rolf had his vas deferens completely removed—not just cut, fully removed. The damage was severe, affecting surrounding tissues. He almost became sterile, and his testicles were affected too. Before surgery, she allowed him to freeze some sperm, under her control. Later, rumors said there was a fight and damage, but who knows if true.”

Another person gasped sharply.

Karl slowly closed his eyes; their voices grew quieter.

“So what’s the situation now?”

“Strange. Erika nearly castrated him but gave him full control of the money and investments. He lost a big sum, which she covered, but then she lost control. Rolf was also lucky—he made a big profit on another investment, bought the bank before it collapsed, and it naturally became his.”

Not luck but a return of the lost investment.

Though assets shrank by a third, what once belonged to his wife was now his.

Karl thought, no one else would ever know these things.

“No wonder Rolf is so promiscuous now. I’ve never met or heard of this Erika. If you hadn’t told me, I’d never know.”

“Not a secret, old news. At least the estate is with the son. I just fear the son isn’t close to her. Look at him, how much he looks like his father…”

“Erika is a rare fool. Rolf truly is no good, but her family’s bank remaining in her hands would have ruined it. Oh, why can’t I catch such luck?”

With laughter, they left: “Look at you, how can anyone endure you? You cry and scream when things don’t go your way…”

Outsiders didn’t know his parents were divorced. Karl didn’t want to tell anyone, and he couldn’t tell.

He got off the toilet, walked out slowly, avoiding the mirror, only numbly washing his hands. He hated his father hurting his mother, hated his mother hurting his father. As a child, he had wished they’d hurt him instead, so they might make peace. But now, he hated them both—not because they treated him badly, but because, from a third-person perspective, from an outsider’s view, they were absurdly bad, crazy, doing so many ugly things.

Yet in public, they still appeared so good.

How could humans be like this? And these humans were his parents.

When he was little, they seemed happy, dancing around the house holding him, loving him.

Such beautiful people—how could they now smell so rotten? Like tomatoes covered in mold—bright and red on one side, but full of white and green decay on the other.

Karl didn’t want to look up, afraid his reflection might become like that. But soon he raised his head, studied himself carefully, and vowed never to be like them—he even wished to smash the glass, slash his face, leave a scar to remind himself never to be like them.

The longing for love made one weak, but the anger and disgust, for some reason, made him stronger. Like a proper person, he fiercely rejected his parents’ behavior in his heart, swearing never to forgive them a single bit. This made him neither crave love nor want to cry or feel sorry for his mother. He didn’t know how he would face her when he got home, and an urge arose—if only he didn’t have to go home. But if not home, then where? And he had Lila.

His head was pounding as he walked out. The match started at one p.m., but now it was already dark. Because he wore a staff badge around his neck, he didn’t need to take a detour to the main entrance, walking down the mostly darkened, empty corridor. The stadium was nearly closed, only cleaning machines making rumbling noises. Passing the locker room door, he paused, quietly watching the small wooden door for a while before finally raising his hand to press his palm against the smooth grain of the wood.

He still had a path to walk.

He would walk his path here.

A few days later, in the German Cup match, Bayern suffered a cosmic upset, losing to their own second team.