Marcel Winatschek

That World Cup Summer

Summer could’ve been the thing—the Spree, late-night rooftops, sun on your face in some park, Murakami or Mian Mian in your hands. Quiet, drifting, unscheduled. That summer.

Instead: drunk office workers planted in front of shitty screens, mechanics honking in circles for hours, supermarket cashiers who couldn’t tell you what the DFB stood for suddenly giving play-by-play on every foul, every dive, every corner. Night after night. Week after week. The whole city had one brain.

I’m not saying football is bad. I’m saying summer shouldn’t have to apologize for existing, and quiet was no longer something I could just have. Trying to read in a park meant someone nearby was already yelling.

By August I was probably against football. Just a little.

That summer didn’t happen. There were weeks of other people’s excitement with gaps in between.