'I know what love can do', sing The Techniques as I walk down the dark forest path. The sound of raindrops falling on the brim of my hat is mixing with the ska music on my headphones and I ask myself for the tenth time whether I'm doing the right thing.
I am on my way to an extremely meaningless football match. Tennis Borussia (fourth division) vs. Hilalspor (sixth division) in the last-sixteen of the Berlin Pilsener Cup. The result is something of a foregone conclusion but, even if the impossible did happen and Hilalspor won the game, nobody would care much anyway.
Several computer-printed signs attached to wet fences point me in the direction of Julius-Hirsch Sport Complex, where the reserve team usually plays. Due to low demand, however, it's not worth the trouble of opening up the stadium for the 100 or so bedraggled, half-interested punters who make the journey out to this far-flung corner of West Berlin on a Tuesday night.
An old man is standing beside a table with a small money tin. Next to him a fat guy in a Lonsdale sweater is providing the 'muscle' in case anyone tries to sneak in without paying the 4 Euro charge. The man cannot count, and every single transaction is drawn out as he stares at the money with exaggerated concentration, getting it wrong every time.
Finally I'm in, and not a moment too soon. The game has just kicked off so I buy a beer in a plastic cup and take up a prime position on the touchline amidst a small group of purple-clad student types. Within 6 minutes it is 1-0 to Tennis Borussia, an appalling backpass which is punished by a crisp, concise finish from 30 yards out. The crowd doesn't even cheer. Rather, they emit a kind of collective sigh. Yes, their team is going to win. Yes, it's that easy. No, it wasn't worth coming.
The rain keeps falling and so do the goals. 2-0. I buy another drink and the man at the beer stand tries to give me 18 Euros change for a 10 Euro note. Returning to my place, I find the crowd discussing the fact that the new Tennis Borussia striker, Danny Kukulies, has a tattoo of their rival team, BFC Dynamo.
"We should collect some money from everyone," the loudest chap announces to nobody in particular. "Pay to get it covered up."
The third goal slides in and the Hilalspor goalkeeper can't even be bothered to dive. It's followed promptly by a fourth, absurdly off-side goal. A few moments later the newcomer Kukulies yells at the referee, angered by a decison. "Get rid of your Dynamo tattoo first," shouts my neighbour. His words echo around the field and Kukulies looks slightly annoyed.
As the referee blows the whistle for half-time the players trudge back down the forest path to the dressing room. Some of them greet members of the tiny crowd and politely decline offers of sausages and coffee. A middle-aged man hovers by the bratwurst stand barking statistics into a mobile phone. People mill around amiably enough and I lean on the fence, watching the proceedings with interest. A strange mix of pensioners, twenty-somethings and middle-aged couples seem to have braved the weather for all this. But why?
The second half starts and it is getting colder by the minute. I pull out my red Brentford gloves, emblazoned with 'BFC' in huge white lettering across the back. Up until now I'd kept them in my pockets to avoid running the risk of being mistaken for a BFC Dynamo fan. The fifth goal goes in and the sky opens, freezing raindrops pouring onto us from up in the void above the forest. I pull my hood up.
By the time it becomes 6-0 it is pretty fair to say that the game has been decided. The aggressive, competetive element of the game is fading and the tackles are becoming less violent. A more relaxed atmosphere now reigns on the pitch as the opposing players slap one another on the back and share jokes with the referee, who for his part has taken on more of a role of resident comedian by this point.
7-0. Final whistle and an half-hearted chant of 'Come with us to the final' breaks out amongst the younger section of the crowd. The teams leave the pitch a little too quickly and a younger Tennis Borussia player yells out to his colleagues, "Hey! Help me pack up!".
We all shuffle back into the darkness, players and managers and supporters and beer sellers. It's not quite the glamour of the Bundesliga but there's something to it. Whatever it was that drew me out here on a rainy tuesday night to watch a couple of teams battle it out on artificial grass in the name of the most beautiful game on earth.
I know what love can do...
I am on my way to an extremely meaningless football match. Tennis Borussia (fourth division) vs. Hilalspor (sixth division) in the last-sixteen of the Berlin Pilsener Cup. The result is something of a foregone conclusion but, even if the impossible did happen and Hilalspor won the game, nobody would care much anyway.
Several computer-printed signs attached to wet fences point me in the direction of Julius-Hirsch Sport Complex, where the reserve team usually plays. Due to low demand, however, it's not worth the trouble of opening up the stadium for the 100 or so bedraggled, half-interested punters who make the journey out to this far-flung corner of West Berlin on a Tuesday night.
An old man is standing beside a table with a small money tin. Next to him a fat guy in a Lonsdale sweater is providing the 'muscle' in case anyone tries to sneak in without paying the 4 Euro charge. The man cannot count, and every single transaction is drawn out as he stares at the money with exaggerated concentration, getting it wrong every time.
Finally I'm in, and not a moment too soon. The game has just kicked off so I buy a beer in a plastic cup and take up a prime position on the touchline amidst a small group of purple-clad student types. Within 6 minutes it is 1-0 to Tennis Borussia, an appalling backpass which is punished by a crisp, concise finish from 30 yards out. The crowd doesn't even cheer. Rather, they emit a kind of collective sigh. Yes, their team is going to win. Yes, it's that easy. No, it wasn't worth coming.
The rain keeps falling and so do the goals. 2-0. I buy another drink and the man at the beer stand tries to give me 18 Euros change for a 10 Euro note. Returning to my place, I find the crowd discussing the fact that the new Tennis Borussia striker, Danny Kukulies, has a tattoo of their rival team, BFC Dynamo.
"We should collect some money from everyone," the loudest chap announces to nobody in particular. "Pay to get it covered up."
The third goal slides in and the Hilalspor goalkeeper can't even be bothered to dive. It's followed promptly by a fourth, absurdly off-side goal. A few moments later the newcomer Kukulies yells at the referee, angered by a decison. "Get rid of your Dynamo tattoo first," shouts my neighbour. His words echo around the field and Kukulies looks slightly annoyed.
As the referee blows the whistle for half-time the players trudge back down the forest path to the dressing room. Some of them greet members of the tiny crowd and politely decline offers of sausages and coffee. A middle-aged man hovers by the bratwurst stand barking statistics into a mobile phone. People mill around amiably enough and I lean on the fence, watching the proceedings with interest. A strange mix of pensioners, twenty-somethings and middle-aged couples seem to have braved the weather for all this. But why?
The second half starts and it is getting colder by the minute. I pull out my red Brentford gloves, emblazoned with 'BFC' in huge white lettering across the back. Up until now I'd kept them in my pockets to avoid running the risk of being mistaken for a BFC Dynamo fan. The fifth goal goes in and the sky opens, freezing raindrops pouring onto us from up in the void above the forest. I pull my hood up.
By the time it becomes 6-0 it is pretty fair to say that the game has been decided. The aggressive, competetive element of the game is fading and the tackles are becoming less violent. A more relaxed atmosphere now reigns on the pitch as the opposing players slap one another on the back and share jokes with the referee, who for his part has taken on more of a role of resident comedian by this point.
7-0. Final whistle and an half-hearted chant of 'Come with us to the final' breaks out amongst the younger section of the crowd. The teams leave the pitch a little too quickly and a younger Tennis Borussia player yells out to his colleagues, "Hey! Help me pack up!".
We all shuffle back into the darkness, players and managers and supporters and beer sellers. It's not quite the glamour of the Bundesliga but there's something to it. Whatever it was that drew me out here on a rainy tuesday night to watch a couple of teams battle it out on artificial grass in the name of the most beautiful game on earth.
I know what love can do...
