August 8, 2009

Hertha BSC (08.08.2009)

 I spent a couple seconds trying to figure out exactly what to say to order a beer. It was about 20 minutes before kickoff, and the crowd outside Olympiastadion was bustling chaotically. Muhammed, Joe, and the others had gone up to find the seats and scope out the bathrooms. I was alone, nervous and nursing a full bladder, in a teeming sea of blue-and-white clad Hertha fans. The din was nearly deafening as the crowds stormed beer kiosks and pretzel stands. One crew of drunken supporters were singing loudly—Hooooooh, Hertha! Blahblahblah! Scheiße!!—and I joined the chanting revelry as I passed. One burly guy, with bear claw hands and an inspiringly thick mustache, grabbed me from behind by the shoulder as he shouted something in slurred German. I was sure he’d break my nose or shank me with a broken bottle. Silly American, he was saying, how dare you impugn our glorious songs with your Dirty Harry accent! Prepare for death! (I think I might’ve peed myself a bit.) But before the flecks of the man’s spittle could dry on my face, shouts turned to cheers and he wrapped me up in a man-hug. “Yeah!” I shouted. “Hanover sucks balls!” Creative? No, but certainly appreciated.

 When I reached the head of the line for a libation, a short, disgruntled-looking woman rattled off some German, requesting my order. She looked like she moonlighted as one of Santa’s elves: Snuggles, her name must’ve been. “Ein große bier, bitte” I said with enough bravado to make Hasselhoff blush. I took my place to the left of the line and waited as Snuggles shouted towards the sweat-drenched pourer behind her. And I waited. And I waited more.

 In a dark shed on the Olympiastadion campus, there is an old man, a groundskeeper, lighting his last clove cigarette with a flaming picture of me—because I must’ve killed the plot of grass in front of Snuggles's register by standing in the same place so damn long. For five irreplaceable minutes I was that cheerless, forgotten underage drinker.

 Finally I spoke up. “Wo ist mein bier?” I demanded. Blank stares from Snuggles. “I want my beer. I’ve been waiting for eight minutes,” I charged again. “Ein große bier: nine Euro,” she chirped back, showing me 'nine' with her fingers. What the fuck, Snuggles?

 I’ve learned from this trip that beer vendors are like Carnies: give them an ounce of opportunity, and they’ll coolly rip your heart out. The language barrier, too, was made exponentially bigger since the patrons behind me loathed the American kid having a hissyfit at the front of the beer line. Snuggles forgot that I paid for my beer—woe is I—and my skimpy language muscles had already been exhausted. “Look! My wallet is empty!” I emphatically opened and closed my wallet, as if the antics would razzle and dazzle Snuggles, to show that I was out of money. “I gave you my last 10 Euros, now I need my beer,” I said, this time with a pitiful look.

 A murmur rose up from the crowd behind me. The gang of singing Hertha fans jostled like kids at the back of the line, wondering why it wasn’t moving. Then my walrusian friend saw me up front, waving at him with a strained smile, and started chanting. A chorus of my inebriated German homies sprang into action: “Yaddayadda bier! Yaddayaddayadda bier!!” Snuggles screamed back at them, the way you or I would to scare off a full-grown puma. And I stood in the middle of the verbal melee, little ol’ awkward me.

 The yelling ran its course, and Snuggles still refused to pour my beer. Then, out of nowhere, a hoity-toity (but heroic) man spoke up. I could only pick out “bier” and his hand gestures, but he must have said something like, “Give him the beer or I’ll make you disappear in four hours. Kapish?” because Snuggles hopped backwards, poured two beers in nine seconds, and slid them across the bar with a blank expression. At that moment I felt sort of bad for Snuggles—I silently wished that I wasn’t the reason she’d have a bad day. I shot my knight in Armani armor a wink to show my gratitude, but he didn’t care.  “Danke schön,” Snuggles said to me with a forced smile as I left. I tossed her a 1€ piece, and she immediately slid it back without looking. You gotta love German women.

 I got to my seat a few minutes before player introductions, a beer in my stomach and its gratis twin in my hand. Sam Lim asked where I’d been, and I told him it was a long story; bloggable, but long. Music blared from the speaker above our heads as players took the field, and we stood and clapped and cheered. “Hey man,” Sam said as he poked my side. “A 10 just fell out of your pocket.”

... Sorry, Snuggles.