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bundeslihaha · 6 years

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Chapter 11: Under the Spotlight

The Media Days have started! Join the Bundesliga boys and girls as they prepare for the part of the season they wished they could skip!

Whoever’s documenting us, SV Darmstadt 98 thought as she reread the address on her phone, must be lazy as fuck…

Somehow, she wasn’t surprised at her vocabulary – hanging out (well, arguing) with Karlsruhe, Kaiserslautern and Braunschweig would do that to anyone…

Hmm, speaking of those three, it was unfortunate for such big clubs with rich history to not get promoted, wasn’t it? But naaaah, Darmstadt grinned mischievously. She was definitely looking forward to filling the next page of her football fairytale!

FC Ingolstadt 04 looked up at his coach slowly. “Papa?” he called, tugging the sleeve of Ralph Hasenhüttl’s shirt.

“Yes, Ingolstadt?” Papa asked. His face looked sooo bored, but Ingolstadt knew anyone would be, like really! It seemed like they’d been on this train for years! “Papa, are we there yet?” he whined, secretly hoping that asking would make the trip faster.

“Not yet, Ingolstadt,” Papa replied, messing his hair. “No, Papa, don’t do that!” he protested, swatting his large hand off his head, “I’m not a kid anymore!” He was already eleven years old, okay? He didn’t need a Papa. He wanted to live alone like RB Leipzig, to do whatever and whenever he wanted! Why did the bosses still force him to live with a “father figure”? He’s a personification, not a normal kid! Why should he go to a boring school? Why should he be watched while eating? Everyone knew he hated vegetables! Why?!

“Ingolstadt,” Papa said, touching his cheek instead, “I’m sorry, okay? You know I like your hair when it’s neatly trimmed like this.” He chuckled a little. Ingolstadt pouted. “Of course you like it, Papa, you trimmed it yourself!” the boy playfully punched his caretaker, “Why can’t I have long hair like Bochum?”

“Bochum?” Papa asked, raising an eyebrow, “His hair is awful. Especially with that hairclip.”

The little Bavarian groaned. “But- but I want my hair to touch my shoulders! It’s so cool, Papa!” He patted Papa’s shoulder for good measure, but all he got was an unconvinced glare. “Fine,” he grumbled, “at least I can grow bangs? Like Karlsruhe?”

Papa’s eyes were unfocused. Maybe he was picturing his (old, haha!) bully, with his shaggy brown hair.

“He looks like he doesn’t have a comb,” Papa finally said. Ingolstadt decided to change tactics. In a second, he was staring at his coach with dark eyes as big as saucers, causing Hasenhüttl to wince and changed the topic himself. “Anyway, are you excited for the Media Days?”

Ingolstadt’s face brightened that instant. “Of course, Papa! I can’t wait to meet the others!” He was jumping on his seat now, earning him annoyed looks from other passengers. “Especially Bayern. She’s so… so badass!”

When Ingolstadt realized what he’d just said, his hands comically flew to cover his mouth. “Sorry, Papa,” he squeaked.

Now, Ralph Hasenhüttl couldn’t bring himself to be harsh to the spoiled, irritating boy that was the physical embodiment of FC Ingolstadt, but he couldn’t the child grow up with no manners, either.

“Ingolstadt,” Hasenhüttl said, a patronizing hand on the 11-year-old’s shoulder, “what did I tell you about bad words?”

The personification sighed, head hung in shame. “I must not say them, Papa,”

“Good,” the manager nodded. Let’s all pray the first division clubs wouldn’t undo everything he’d taught his ‘son’…

Elsewhere…

As usual, Europe-bound clubs gather on a corner of whatever meeting place they were in (in this case, studio), FC Augsburg looking out of place.

The UEL club was sandwiched between 25-time-German champions, FC Bayern München, and her chaser, VfL Wolfsburg, his lean body a stark contrast from the fanservice muscles of the two. It didn’t trouble Augsburg much, though. What troubled him was how… casually the six other clubs spoke of trebles, Spanish giants and the like, and though he was an expert at poker faces, intimidation froze him in place.

“Earth to Augsburg,” Bayern called with a hard pat on his back, “you still there?”

He blinked before meeting her gaze. “Yeah.”

“Don’t be so shy, mate,” Gladbach added, flashing the ginger a toothy grin. “It’s my first time in Champions League, too. Ish."

“But you’ve been in Europa,” Augsburg said matter-of-factly.

“Yeah, but you’ll make it!” Dortmund cheered from opposite his seat, a fist punching the air. “Sure, I’ll be your rival later on, but I’m rooting for you! You’re too good to go down…” He trailed off. Must be remembering Freiburg, Augsburg mused, feeling a pang of sympathy for the relegated club and the friend she’d left behind. Would he have to sacrifice Europe for domestic survival, like she had?

“Tch. No one’s ‘too good’ to go down,” Gladbach spat as if forcing everyone to recall his recent brushes with relegation.

“But I think you’ll do well, FCA,” Schalke piped up, a grudging note in his deep voice. “You’re more consistent than Lüdenscheid over here,” he poked his fellow Ruhr club right on his ‘BVB 09, Echte Liebe’ tattoo.

“Oh, shut up, Scheiße,” Dortmund snapped, “just because you consistently suck, doesn’t mean you can bully those who don’t.” A sneer twisted Die Schwarzgelben’s handsome face, practically begging the Royal Blues to punch it. And so, Schalke did.

“Ouch,” Gladbach snickered. That was one hell of a punch. Leverkusen hid his snicker behind his hands.

“You…” Dortmund growled, rubbing his aching nose.

With Schalke sneering back, they left the group for a more physical Revierderby.

A chuckle escaped Bayern at her enemies’ antics. “Oi, Augsburg!” she called again. The ginger beside her responded with a ‘hmm’. “How does it feel to watch the two up close?”

Wolfsburg and the Rhine boys stared hard at the younger Bavarian, trying to coax an answer out of the stoic man.

“Funny?” Augsburg answered, with a tone that made it sound like a question. Wolfsburg laughed. “You don’t sound like you mean it!”

The Fuggerstädter shrugged. “I guess I’m used to it.” He really was used to seeing clubs fight. Nürnberg and Fürth's drunken Oktoberfest brawls weren't much different from the Ruhr Valley rivals', really. He hoped he could be used to being in the company of these giants, too…

There were confident people, and then there was Hamburger SV.

Six-time German champion, playoff specialist (Fürth and Karlsruhe could stay in 2. Bundesliga forever, he didn’t care) and especially beater of “oh-so-great” Gladbach, Augsburg and Bayern was entering the studio with a swagger unseen in him before.

Unfortunately, his swag didn't impressed anyone, except if you count Hannover’s friendly ‘hi’ as an expression of awe. Even worse, Mainz and Frankfurt didn’t even try to hide their laughter (or in the case of Hoffenheim, his derisive remarks). Ugh. He should find Werder lest he died of boredom here. He opened his mouth to ask his boyfriend where the shit is, but when he saw Hertha’s suspicious glances, an imaginary light bulb appeared over his head.

“Yo, Karlsruhe’s whore!”

At her death glare, he couldn’t help but think: This photoshoot won’t be so boring after all.

“Welcome to the Bundesliga!” Eintracht Frankfurt exclaimed, snaking a hand around Darmstadt's shoulders with a less-than-friendly laugh. At the physical contact, she tensed, but took it in stride a moment later. “Thank you, Frankfurt. How are you?”

“Great,” the Eagles replied. “And you, Darmstadt?”

She looked up at him with a beam. “Never better!”

“How can you not?” Frankfurt’s hearty laugh rang in the hallway, “really, I can congratulate you all day.” There was a strangely comfortable silence as they walked inside the studio. “Anyway,” the taller man continued, “Ready for the derby?” Challenge sparkled in his red eyes, dangerous yet inviting.

“Of course,” Darmstadt accepted, her blue eyes echoing his. “And I’m gonna win them all!”

If there was one thing every club preferred their archenemy over, that thing would be a makeover.

Bayern was insisting “Hertha’s kind of makeup” didn’t suit her, demanding the poor makeup artist to 'fix her up' the way she did the male personifications.

Stuttgart had had his dark brown dye forcefully removed, leaving his hair very, very blond. “It will bring out your eyes,” the makeup artist had said, his green eyes glinting with evil.

Even Hertha almost cried when they said she had to take off her bow (a parting gift from her lover years ago) despite accepting her new, layered hairstyle.

So when 1. FC Köln came in to a horde of dissatisfied clubs, he feared for himself as he took his seat on the torture chair.

“Hi, Köln,” his makeup artist, a young woman whose build reminded him of Nuernberg. “Don’t be afraid, ‘kay?”

“Uh…” Köln said, “do I have to take this off?” He indicated at the thin hair tie holding his ponytail.

“Of course,” she smirked.

And then, the torture began.

“Afternoon, everyone!”

Seventeen Bundesliga clubs gathered in the middle of the spacious studio, prepped and pumped for the so-called ‘BL Media Days’. Or for it to be over, but that didn’t really matter. A DFL official welcomed them in their headquarters. The greetings/bullshit was followed by Darmstadt’s introduction, and of course: “But most importantly, have fun!”

The first photoshoot was standard – they’d be photographed head to waist with hands on their hips, a plain white wall their background.

To make things simpler, the officials would call the impatient personifications in alphabetical order, because of which, Werder Bremen and Wolfsburg decided to treat themselves (and the others, on the officials’ insistence) lunch.

“FC Augsburg!” came the first call, and true to his no-nonsense personality, it only took him a minute or two, even with the touch-ups.

“Bayer 04 Leverkusen!”

The Retortenclub rolled his eyes. “Later, okay” he told Bayern, who gave him a thumb up in reply. As a true PR man, Leverkusen stepped up to the stage with confidence, a charming smile set to melt fangirls and fanboys’ hearts on his face.

“Hello, cutie,” the makeup artist teased, applying a dash of bronzer on Leverkusen’s cheek. He responded accordingly – with a wink and “Hello to you too!”

Then crash! The door to the studio slammed open, causing almost everyone to jump in surprise, and came in Ralph Hasenhüttl, red-faced and panting as he helped his charge up from his face-down fall. “We… apologize for our lateness,” the coach said. Beside him, FC Ingolstadt 04 stood with a broken nose and tearful eyes. A laugh could be heard from his fellow Aufsteiger, but she disguised it as a cough before Hasenhüttl could do anything.

“No problem, Sir!” one of the officials said amicably. After a grateful nod from the manager (and a three-minute chiding to Germany’s youngest club), he left. “Use Darmstadt’s phone to call me when I’m done, okay?”

Darmstadt’s fists clenched - she couldn’t make a bad impression in front of the Bundesligists, but everyone was laughing at her! Not to mention Inge’s annoying ‘okay, Papa! See you later!’

Like she hadn’t had enough of that squirt in the second division…

Desperate to stop the laughter directed at him, the club nicknamed Die Schanzer turned to face his new ‘friends’. “Hi, guys!” he shouted, waving his hands in the air. “I’m FC Ingolstadt! And you?” He jumped to a bench where two clubs, one in green and the other blue, sat. “What’s your name?”

The guy in green stood up, and damn he was huge! Ingolstadt had to stand on his toes just to see his beard! Fortunately, he could see his arms, his legs, and woah he had so much hair… how cool! I wish I had a body like that, the little boy thought, hand almost touching his muscular calf… almost… almost…

“Wolfsburg,” the huge man answered, snatching Ingolstadt’s hand to shake it. “And this is Hoffenheim,” he gestured to the man in blue, who was black-haired, blue-eyed and sulking.

(The introductions, unnecessary as they were, continued, much to the officials’ annoyance – to make it worse, everyone was either too amused or too mesmerized by the pint-sized Bavarian’s “cuteness” to stop him.

Seven minutes and thirty-one seconds later – “THANK GOD!” one of the officials whooped – Ingolstadt had made himself known to every club but Die Werkself, who had just finished posing for the cameras.)

When Leverkusen stepped off the stage with another stranger’s (well, at least she wasn’t a Scheißbock fan) phone number, a red-haired boy – promoted Ingolstadt, Leverkusen read his club crest – approached him, confusion narrowing his dark eyes.

“What’s wrong, Ingolstadt?” he asked, letting his persona do the job.

“I’m confused, Sir,” the boy replied, scratching his head with a pudgy finger. “This thing is for… personifications only, right?”

He’s more stupid than I thought, Leverkusen made a mental groan, but outwardly, he kneeled to the Audi-backed club’s eye level, his hands on his small shoulders. “Yes, it is,” he said, his voice as soft as the gaze he sent the Bavarian, “you may be young, Ingolstadt dear… but you are one of us.”

To Leverkusen’s surprise, Ingolstadt didn’t jump up and down with renewed self-esteem, but gave him a blank stare instead. “’Us’? Who are you?!” the boy shrieked, as if Leverkusen was some kind of intruder. He resisted the urge to kick the newbie in the groin by offering him a hand to shake. “Bayer Leverkusen,” he introduced himself, grinning eye-to-eye, “nice to meet you!”

“You’re Bayer Leverkusen?!” the boy echoed, dumbstruck as he squinted at the cross and lions on his chest. “I thought… I thought you were a player!”

He could hear Gladbach and Köln’s too-loud whispers of ‘The guy looks like Kießling and he doesn't even admit it'.

"Fuck you," Leverkusen muttered, turning on his heel to leave the baby boy. He'd give those two assholes a lesson... but first, he needed a plastic surgery.

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