Why do I hate to be loved
I loved hating FC Bayern. Now i hate it
Berlin - German television entertainment strains us with a large number of repetitions. But this one is by far the most penetrating: FC Bayern have become German champions for the ninth time in a row.
We know the pictures well enough: half-happy youngsters routinely shower each other with wheat beer, hardly more exuberant than a gang of car salesmen who hit a grandma with an SUV. The officials nodded the procedure from the official gallery in boredom, because to get the title, yes, well ... uh: That was the bare minimum.
And then we go home, at the end of a season that, thanks to its bombastic over-staging, has once again given us the hope that it will - haha! - exciting, but we guessed it right away and were just too naive and too believing in miracles to admit it to us: It all came down to the same thing forever. Vulgo: The devil always shits on the biggest pile.
Not in the mood for moves, marathons and parents' evenings
Now you may have guessed that I'm not happy for the ninth time in a row that FC Bayern have become German champions. I've never been happy about it, to be honest. Because I hate FC Bayern. And I want to try to explain why that is.
Nothing easier than that. But nothing harder either. Because actually I hate hate.
Hatred brutalizes and neglects those who hate. That's why I prefer to keep my hands off it.
There is too much floating around anyway. Who can, should love. If you can't, you should close your eyes, take a deep breath and count to ten instead of pouring your hatred into the fire like gasoline.
And last but not least: hatred is exhausting. I don't feel like doing that, any more than moving, marathons and parents' evenings.
I would like to say: I don't like FC Bayern. You can't like everyone, especially in football. Dislike someone leaves you with the option of ignoring them.
For example, I ignore TSG 1899 Hoffenheim. It would seem ridiculous to brutalize and neglect a billionaire's toy. For me, the Bundesliga has only 16 members since this club and another club that should not be mentioned here appeared. Tolerance through disregard: It is with the same attitude that I encounter fashion and restaurant chains, my daughter's fascination with the “ice queen” and Mario Barth.
Unfortunately, I can't do that at FC Bayern. Disgust burns too painfully in me to be unable to think about it every day.
Yes, I hate FC Bayern. And how I hate him! If there is only one fan in the world who loves FC Bayern as I hate him, you should name your arena in Munich after him.
Where Arno Schmidt was on vacation and James Last's mother had a girlfriend
"What to do with the hatred that I feel?" Sang Jochen Distelmeyer. I keep it in my private museum of hatred, which is full of battle paintings, shattered sculptures, and rotten totems. That's where I sit and curate my negative emotions. But I don't think I'll ever fight myself, throw stones at a bus, or steal someone's banner.
I would rather devote myself to the question: Where does the hatred that I feel come from?
I haven't mentioned yet that I love SV Werder. This is where the text could end if only addressed to those who feel like me. We could use the white space to shout our hatred of Bavaria into it.
For everyone else, I would like to go back further.
I grew up in Diepholz near Bremen, in an area where the cultural sun doesn't shine very often. James Last's mother had a friend in town who she sometimes went to for coffee. Arno Schmidt was on vacation at Dümmersee. And Ferdinand Celine spent an unfortunate year in Diepholz as an exchange student. But if you google “Celine” and “Diepholz” today, you end up with an article about the winner of the secondary school reading competition. Our concept of art is based solely on geniuses like Johan Micoud, whom the world spirit sent to us out of pity. If Roberto Donadoni was the "light of San Siro", as the Milanese say, then the SV Werder playmakers were the light of the north German plain.
The club is everything in this nothing. His slogan is “100 percent Werder”. As for my father, I would assume 130 percent. To call him a fan would be belittling, you have to pronounce the word completely: fanatic. His brother, my uncle, was once the second chairman of the Werder table tennis division and, although he was also a respected doctor, only achieved something in my father's eyes through this position. Both love Werder without me giving them a shit, 30 percent more than their children.
A perfectly normal foul.
Uli Hoeneß, 1986
But even more than they love SV Werder, they both hate FC Bayern. And just as I inherited hair loss from my father's line, the tendency to be ill-tempered for no reason and the ability to fall asleep anywhere within seconds, their hatred of Bavaria has also passed on to me.
Of course, I wasn't born hating. As a toddler, I would never have known that far beyond the Weser Uplands, where my world ended back then, lies the murder of football: Munich. It took initiation. It was the 1985/86 season, I was seven, when I started hating.
On the 16th matchday of the season, Rudi Völler hurried towards Bayern's goal, spitting the ball past Klaus Augenthaler, who chopped him down like a lumberjack in the Allach forest. Völler, my idol, whom I emulated every day by dribbling out the laundry stakes and slamming the ball into the swing frame, tore the adductors in my left thigh and fell out for five months. Eye only saw yellow.
“A completely normal foul,” said Bayern manager Uli Hoeneß.
“We don't play chess,” said Bayern coach Udo Lattek.
“I hate them like the plague,” said my father.
In the second leg, in which Völler finally celebrated his comeback, Michael Kutzop missed the penalty two minutes before the end, which would have secured us the championship early. FC Bayern won it on the last day of the match. It was the only miss in Kutzop's career in 41 attempts. And just as the ball spun from the post into the goal with provocative slowness, the vague chance that I could have become a winner also tumbled out of my life. I sat on the carpet in front of the TV, cried, cried and began to hate bad luck - and the one who had the opposite: FC Bayern.
This opposite was not the luck that distributed his favor reasonably evenly. It was a bummer. A bogeyman of fate who takes the joy away from poor little children like me and gives it to Bavaria. I can still hear my little heart breaking because the dumbbell tramples on it, grinning, smirking, slapping his shoes. Please think of a sad smiley at this point.
In the evening I went out and destroyed their structures
To make it clear how deep my hatred was after that season, I would like to tell you about our neighbor. He was a kind-hearted man who, when we went through the village street dressed as children at carnival and sang “I am a little king, don't give me too little”, generously filled the bag with sweets. Unfortunately, he was strikingly similar to Uli Hoeneß. I feel embarrassed to admit it, but I started to hate him too.
I hated schoolmates who were so weak as to allow themselves to be seduced into love for Bavaria by the blues. I hated people who drove Opel because the company was a shirt sponsor for FC Bayern. I hated Norbert Nachtweih, Norbert Eder and all the other Norberts. I hated vacationers who wrote “FC Bayern” in their sand castles on the beach with shells. In the evening I went out and destroyed their structures.
With all that hatred, I have to say: It was a wonderful, glorious, proud hatred. Because it was answered. We hated Bayern, they hated us. I hated Markus, the Bayern fan in my class, he hated me. Uli Hoeneß hated Willi Lemke, Lemke hated Hoeneß. Rudi Völler said he would rather "have his hand chopped off or go to Sudan" than move to Munich.
We were their competitors, rivals, epic enemies
Others were not so confident of character: Herzog, Basler, Pizarro, Ismaël, Borowski, Klose, even the trainer Otto Rehhagel. But despite all the disappointment about their faithlessness, these transfers harbored a compliment: FC Bayern, Croesus of the league, only buy from the best jewelers.
How the players shone in those years, how the trophies shone, the eyes in the floodlights, my hatred! Three times, in 1988, 1993 and 2004, we became German champions and relegated FC Bayern to the cheap places. We were their competitors, rivals, epic enemies, entangled like two boxers in a clinch, feeling the final, decisive blow in our fists.
Every victory against Bayern was all the more delicious as we broke a natural law they had formulated: that of their own invincibility. Wonderful how they writhed and complained, how they complained, to the referee, to the football god, to their mothers, because the common Bremen people had stolen their points like a lollipop that belonged to them and only them. And it is wonderful how, despite all the satisfaction, the hatred did not simply disappear, on the contrary, it continued to grow.
The light over the North German Plain has become very weak
If only I had known that the 5-2 win on September 20, 2008 would be the last to this day, maybe forever - I would have married that day until death do us part. But this is how the world's fame goes: Although we officially still play in a league with FC Bayern, every child knows that we have long since stopped doing it. We have been fighting against relegation for years and now feel the urge to simply let ourselves fall down in order to finally win twice in a row a class lower. The light over the North German Plain has become very weak.
But FC Bayern is still where the dizziness, the ghostly ability to force success and the accumulation of money have cemented it: right at the top. Now in Munich, if I understand correctly, they are dreaming of their own league on Mars.
Let's assume that SV Werder would send the old enemy a telegram of congratulations on the championship: Does he even know where Bremen is? How he once feared traveling north? Where is Diepholz? And who am i? The aging boy who hates FC Bayern like no one else?
Well, probably not.
Hate is not a good thing, as I said. But if you already hate, you at least want to be hated back. I loved hating FC Bayern. Now i hate it.
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