First soccer game in the books. Offenbach was the town, the Kickers are there team. Everywhere I go in Frankfurt, every single soul seems to despise the entire city. They hate Offenbach so bad, that someone in Frankfurt managed to get every single airplane landing at Frankfurt International to come roaring over head. It’s as though the Marshall Plan was reinstated and renamed the Fuck U Offenbach Plan. Let me put it this way, it makes Citi Field seem like a Library. Thank god for the invention of double paned windows or they’d have to rename the team the Insomniacs.
First impressions are important, and this one gave me the shits. I knew it would be a colorful place when the crack head gypsy lady approached asking for the time, but really wanting to see if A)we were the cops B) anyone had a nice enough watch to steal or C) prospective customers. The “I’ll-blow-u-if-u- buy-me-a-sandwich” look in her eye reminded me of the desperate women I used to see in Queensbridge at 1am coming home from work. Thank you crack head lady! Nothing beats a flood of nostalgia before the big game. The stadium is small, comparable to that of a hockey arena in the number of seats. Do too construction, the bathrooms were closed. Nine port-o-potties were strategically positioned to ensure fast relief from too much beer consumption. Cigarette smoking was rampant INSIDE the stadium. Thinking how Mike Bloomberg would shit his pants over this made me smile, until 2 14 year olds began to light up 2 feet too close to my poor face. With the precision of a night shift nurse sucking away on her “last one”, they puffed and pulled each one right down to Brownsville. Since this is Europe, and no one seems to know yet about lung cancer, I allowed my asshole fueled charm to desert me. I simply pocketed the, “Could you suck on that Leukemia stick somewhere else fuck nuts,” greeting for some other rainy day. Wouldn’t want to start a war over such a silly thing as second hand smoke!
The fan base was thin on attendance, but passionate singing festive holiday songs about having sex with the other players wives (that’s what I’m told.) I’m not just talking about 1-2 people singing but 8000 strong at the same time with great cadence and timing. A truly whimsical magical feel filled the arena after that. My German friends beer fueled laughter and good cheer comprised my personal theme song for the day. It was great to see the passion they exuded when such classic numbers as the sex song and “GO..GO…OFC” came up. As god as my witness, my friend Marcus actually was the one that started one of the chants! A breathtaking honor! It was through there positive example and good cheer that I was able to break the bond of never wearing another teams colors besides that New York Yankee blue. In good spirit, I donned a red and white Offenbach Kickers scarf over my other scarf for the entire game. The game itself was quick paced and done before I knew it. The Kickers, our Kickers won. I now know what it is like to be a Mets fan! On my way to the bahnof to go home, visions of Pittsburg flashed through my eyes as we drove through this blue collar gem. As I wished my boys tsschus, Marcus quickly told me that it was finally ok to ,“hide my scarf now. Remember your going back through Frankfurt.” Sage advice from a wise and merry soul.
The train ride home turned out to be just as eventful. While walking down the aisle in order to find a better seat, I spotted a 6’1” Russian immigrant pushing a 5’5” 110lb nerd who must be majoring in something like calculus at Frankfurt University. The Russian was terribly loaded, mumbling something along the lines of, ”Oh man, what is going on,” over and over while pushing this horribly outmatched guy. At this point, a few spooked strap hangers phoned the conductor. He then stopped the train, came all the way back to the car and yelled at the guy to sit his drunk ass down. To the joy of the entire car, a wave of clarity washed over the slovenly bastard and he finally remembered how to sit down. Soon thereafter, he forget again, raised up and grabbed his entire case of Yen Raki (a Turkish spirit). Being a dickhead magnet of the greatest sort, I was not that surprised when he began wobbling over to the door I was standing by. For the next 15 minutes, I had the distinct privilege and honor of Mr. Wants-To-Die engaging me in conversation. Standing at an angle in order to hit him with a right hook if things progressed to the point of no return, he began reciting the line that had become his trademark “Oh man…what is going on.” I then began to tell him, what was going on. By the time I had finished calling him a fucktard who was holding up my chances of making it to IKEA before it closed, the train stopped. Quickly, I hit the button to the door, and directed him magically out. To my consternation, he then quickly wheeled around, case of Yen Raki still in hand, put his food in the door, and asked me to take a bottle for myself. After smelling his retched breath from 3 feet away for the last few minutes, I politely declined by kicking his foot out the door. With mesmerizing speed and agility for someone so fucked up, this stubborn bastard put his foot in the door again!, With a vacant, dangerous look, he then demanded I take a bottle. With IKEA in the balance, and now my life, I took one, and pushed the charmer out the door for good. As the train took off, I turned around with my first Christmas present of the holidays in hand to a standing ovation. Apparently I had been the highlight of the evening for those affected by the Russian scourge. With friendly pats on the back, and head nods of appreciation, I had become a hero!
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