My Most Valuable Player

In the past, I was always excited about going into a new football season. Before COVID-19 turned the whole world upside down, I normally felt that a summer break without football was necessary, but at the same time, I was always glad when it was over and I could fall back into my football-watching routine on the weekends. 

This year, however, is different. Bayern Munich’s loss of my three favorite players Boateng, Martínez and Alaba weighs heavily on my mind. But it’s the absence of another man – my father and my most valuable player, as I have come to realize – that has changed everything.

In our house, football has always been a family affair. Shortly after my father passed away, my sister and I found a folder in the basement, where he had neatly filed all the letters my mother had sent to him in the early stages of their marriage – at that time, my dad had been relocated to Japan for work, and my mom had to stay behind in Germany with me and my sister to get things in order before we could all join him in Tokyo.

In her letters, my mother spoke of her daily tasks, preparations for the big move to Japan, and complained about her two daughters being naughty (ehem), drawing on the walls and unwilling to go sleep at night. And in every single letter, she wrote about football. One paragraph reads: “On Saturday, I was hoping that Katrin would take an afternoon nap, but she didn’t want to. Instead, we ate strawberry cake and watched football.” (I wasn’t even two years old at the time.)

In another letter, she raves about Beckie (her nickname for Franz Beckenbauer, who was her favorite player at the time) and tells my dad that she had planned to visit a friend, but didn’t want to stay longer than one hour because otherwise she’d miss the Sportschau. It’s probably not very surprising that my sister and I inherited this love for football from our parents.

Football has been a fixture in my life, which was otherwise shaped by constant change, and it was the one thing the four of us were equally passionate about.  When we were all living in different countries on different continents, we’d still make it a point to talk via Skype every weekend. After covering the basics, more often than not, we’d discuss football:Did you see that hilarious goal by Thomas Müller? Do you think that Bastian Schweinsteiger will leave the club this summer? Will Holger Badstuber come back stronger after his injury? 

After my sister and I moved back to Germany in 2018, we didn’t even need to say it out loud. It was simply a given that we’d watch football together. Bundesliga, DFB Pokal, Champions League: these afternoons and evenings were automatically reserved for family.

In our living room, my father always used to sit in his orange-colored reading chair, my mother on the armchair next to him, my sister on the big sofa because she likes to lie down, myself on the smaller one closest to the TV. In the evenings, my dad – to my right – often put his feet up; and I loved to poke him or pull his toes, for no particular reason, I just liked to tease him.

When things got exciting on the pitch, my dad sometimes – without even realizing – moved his feet, as if he was playing alongside Robert Lewandowski, trying to pass him the ball or score that damn goal himself. The rest of us always shot amused glances at each other, smiling about his enthusiasm. From time to time, we secretly filmed him, just for the hell of it. 

After my dad was admitted to the hospital in March, we weren’t allowed to visit because of the strict regulations due to the pandemic. But we spoke on the phone daily, and of course, he’d always ask about the latest football results (he didn’t know how to use his smartphone for research purposes, only to make calls); but the longer he had to stay in hospital, the more frustrated he became. Still, we tried our best to keep his spirits up. One time, I told him about a Bayern win, and he asked me: how many of these goals did Lewandowski score? When I said two (I think it was two), he laughed for the first time in what felt like forever. 

Unfortunately, we weren’t able to watch another football game together again. After he passed away, the season was almost over, and we all were in a state of daze and grief – even when we watched football, we weren’t really there to watch football. I tried to focus on the last game of the season when it was time to bid farewell to Jerome Boateng, Javi Martinez and David Alaba. I ugly cried, even though in hindsight, I don’t even know what I was actually crying about.

Then, the EURO 2020 came, and my dad’s absence became unbearable. While Germany played their first game against France, I excused myself and went outside. I just couldn’t stand it. 

 A little time has passed. Going into the new football season will be another painful reminder that my father isn’t with us anymore, and I miss him so much that I’m even inclined to say, I’d love to see Mönchengladbach, his favorite team, thrive and do well, hell, let them be Deutscher Meister, I wouldn’t mind (not that I think it’s going to happen, I’m just saying, I wouldn’t be mad about it).

With my father gone, our seating arrangement has changed. My mom moved one seat to the left and is now reigning over the living room from the orange reading chair. The other day, she put up her feet and I pulled her toe. We all had a good laugh about it. Watching football, I realized in that moment, doesn’t have to be about missing my dad – which we will always do, I don’t think this feeling will ever go away. Rather, watching football will be about remembering and cherishing him. I think my dad would really like that.