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| A red sea of the faithful |
Got invited to see the local professional soccer team play. It was my first pro soccer game in Germany. FC Kaiserslautern is in the second tier of German leagues, but the soccer was good, the stadium huge, and the crowd boisterous. Futbol Club Kaiserslautern is usually abbreviated FCK, which confuses English speakers who buy tickets thinking its a dating service.
This was a VIP who honored me with the invite. What does it mean to be a VIP in this situation?
It means you park your car in a protected area in the very shadow of an immaculate 50,000 seat stadium. Every security guard at every checkpoint stares at your creds then bows to kiss your ring, all the while apologizing for a leaf on the road that could possibly ruin your driving experience. Smiles shine like the Rhine on a summer’s day.
After the car parking ceremony, you walk ten feet and ascend near heaven in a polished elevator. When you step out, a bevy of dewy-eyed flowers of young womanhood welcome you to the VIP suite with white-toothed, winsome smiles. They wrap your wrist in color-coded ribbon to let everyone know not to screw with you as you make merry with casual abandon.
In this stadium, a suite means a luxury box slightly smaller than an aircraft carrier and every bit as well equipped. The glass and steel tables stand glistening and ready, laden with silverware, and bottled water in its own chilled casing. The glassware sparkles. A beauty, dressed in a tastefully black, form-fitting outfit, waits breathlessly at tableside to seat you and take your order for beer, wine, coffee, etc. The etc is extensive. So extensive it made my mind wander. Prefer champagne? No prob. Drinks appear in a flash, along with more winsome smiles.
In this lavish room, there are almost as many buffet lines as buffeters (my own word for glutton), plus several bars, in the off chance you want to wander, meet and greet. Hundreds of people mingle, slake their thirst, and nibble. This was no ordinary buffet affair. Slabs of smoked salmon. Paper thin layers of smoked ham. Chicken cordon bleu. Stuffed pork loin. Oven baked green beans with bacon. I could go on and on, without mentioning the string of German desserts and made to order crepes. You big on salads? Try twelve or fifteen exotics, and an array of various lettuces, no doubt picked by virgins that very morning.
The routine was this: You eat and drink and ogle the drink-maids; you go outside to shade-side, upholstered seats, watch a half of soccer, go back inside to eat and drink, go back outside to watch the second half, then go back inside to….ta-da! Eat and drink. By this time you’ve become proficient at eating and drinking, but talking is beginning to be a problem.
Flat screen TVs of heroic size line the walls and in case you missed the game entirely, the usual shellac-haired drivel spouters stare from the screens, idling in their studios, breathless for the interview with the winning coach, which in this case was Kaiserslautern. For that I was very thankful, as I was counting on a ride home.
I only wish the coach would have answered the sportscasters lame questions with more panache. Something like this:
Q: In the past you’ve been concerned with your defense and especially the interaction of the mid-fielders on the crossover passes that have sometimes left the advancing side in an unbalanced position. Did that concern you today?
A: I need a beer.
Q: How about your goalie and his gimpy walk after the leg amputation?
A: I like beer.
Q: Were you pleased with the way your offense controlled the ball on scoring opportunities that some would say walked the edge of satisfactory ball handling?
A: I will go home with your wife. I hear she has pleasant nipples.
Q: How are you preparing for your next game against the Brukenbach Bone Snatchers?
A: I think I’ll let our goalie pull down his pants and answer that question.
Q: Overall, how would you describe the game?
A. We scored two goals. They scored one.
