World Cup Wedding
July 26th 2007 09:42
The FIFA World Cup was on when we were in Hamburg last July. But Football fever seemed hardly to touch the peaceful Treudelberg Hotel, at the edge of forest on the outskirts of Hamburg, until that memorable day when Germany met Argentina in the quarter final.
At five o’clock, the terrace was deserted. The chattering fountain was the only voice in the garden, the swaying trees the only dancers on the lawn and on the golf course, only one lonely flag waited at the first tee. Inside, the corridors were quiet, the pool, the gym, the sauna and the beauty center were empty. There was no rumble of industry from the conference rooms.
“The game” said the smiling receptionist as she pointed me to the bar
“Oh, of course, the game!”
Inside the bar, the crowd stood shoulder to shoulder, squeezed into corners and squashed against walls. There were elderly ladies in brocade; white-haired, jovial red-faced gents in waistcoats; a circle of middle-aged cigar-smokers in shirt-sleeves; elegant, coiffed, bronzed matrons in cut-away, slashed down-to-there, split-up-to here dresses and dangerous heels. Blondes with umbrella drinks, big hair and beach-ball buns teetered on bar-stools. There was a team of beer-drinking suits. A man with a flower in his button-hole leaned on the bar. Right at the front, a woman in white held dher hands to her mouth. Her eyes were fixed, like everyone else’s, on the TV screen where eleven Germans and eleven Argentineans chased a black and white ball backwards and forwards across a rectangle of green.
A scoreless first half ended with snorts of frustration and shaking of heads. The brocades, suits, stilettos, cigar smokers and beach balls receded like a rip-tide, leaving glasses and cigarettes, bags, stoles and jackets like flotsam and jetsam on tables and chairs. There was a lull in the bar, like the eye of a storm. Figures took shape in dim corners; a few football jerseys, a couple of golfers; conference people, in logo tee shirts. There was a re-claiming of space, a charging of glasses, an exchanging of nods; a bonding of sorts.
Outside, under the umbrella, the man with the button-hole and the woman in white joined hands. Their friends closed in and blocked them from view. It was still for a second. But suddenly, the circle unwound and people raced for the bar. Bride and groom shared a kiss and dashed after them .
It was four minutes into the second half. The commentator called the game in tones of mounting panic.
“Nein! Nein!’ screamed the crowd as Argentina scored.
A lone cheer from a shadowed corner fell into a leaden silence.
There were ten minutes left when Miroslav Klose flipped the ball into goal. Bronzed arms waved above coiffured heads.
“Deutschland!” clap, clap, clap “Deutschland!” clap, clap, clap..
Shirt-sleeves thumped waist-coated backs. Beach balls and big hair bounced up and down. Brocades smacked kisses on startled red-faces. Bellowed snatches of “Deutschland
Deutschland uber alles” transported the suits
The air buzzed like an electrical field through extra time. People jumped to their feet as the ball spun towards the German goal “Jaaaaaaaa!” then sank in their seats as Argentina snatched it away “Neieeeeeiiiin!
And finally, we arrived at that hour of judgement, that time of reckoning, that Armageddon of football – the penalty shoot out. Glasses were filled, smokes were lit, everyone settled, tensed, readied. The countdown began. “Ein! Zwei!......Drei!...........”
If there was a voice raised for Argentina it was lost in the roar
“Jaaaaaa!” It was a German win! There was shouting, singing, cheering, laughing, crying, embracing - shirt-sleeves and big-hair, suits and stilettos, white-hair and beach balls, waistcoats and brocade, football jerseys and big hair, golfers and bronzées, conferenciers and coiffures, barmaid and barman, bride and groom, all on the same side now, all whirling around in a demented dance. The commentator’s voice was drowned. The TV flickered, forgotten, in its corner. The joy, the jubilation, the disappointment, the tears and the after-match ugliness played on, unheard and unseen, till the screen snapped off and it vanished into blackness. It was over.
The bride and groom led their guests away, out through the French doors, and across the terrace. From a lawn striped with shadows, they threw bunches of white balloons into the fading sky. The trees shivered in the breeze, the fountain dropped curls of misty spray on the pond and beyond it, a group of golfers teed off, then chased specks of white along the rolling green fairway.
There was an emptiness now, in the bar ,and a tiny tinge of sadness, like theone that follows the end of a good book. But there wass also a feeling anticipation and a sense of xcitement too, like the one that comes when there’s more to the story.
The deserted Terrace at the Treudelberg
At five o’clock, the terrace was deserted. The chattering fountain was the only voice in the garden, the swaying trees the only dancers on the lawn and on the golf course, only one lonely flag waited at the first tee. Inside, the corridors were quiet, the pool, the gym, the sauna and the beauty center were empty. There was no rumble of industry from the conference rooms.
“The game” said the smiling receptionist as she pointed me to the bar
“Oh, of course, the game!”
Inside the bar, the crowd stood shoulder to shoulder, squeezed into corners and squashed against walls. There were elderly ladies in brocade; white-haired, jovial red-faced gents in waistcoats; a circle of middle-aged cigar-smokers in shirt-sleeves; elegant, coiffed, bronzed matrons in cut-away, slashed down-to-there, split-up-to here dresses and dangerous heels. Blondes with umbrella drinks, big hair and beach-ball buns teetered on bar-stools. There was a team of beer-drinking suits. A man with a flower in his button-hole leaned on the bar. Right at the front, a woman in white held dher hands to her mouth. Her eyes were fixed, like everyone else’s, on the TV screen where eleven Germans and eleven Argentineans chased a black and white ball backwards and forwards across a rectangle of green.
A scoreless first half ended with snorts of frustration and shaking of heads. The brocades, suits, stilettos, cigar smokers and beach balls receded like a rip-tide, leaving glasses and cigarettes, bags, stoles and jackets like flotsam and jetsam on tables and chairs. There was a lull in the bar, like the eye of a storm. Figures took shape in dim corners; a few football jerseys, a couple of golfers; conference people, in logo tee shirts. There was a re-claiming of space, a charging of glasses, an exchanging of nods; a bonding of sorts.
Outside, under the umbrella, the man with the button-hole and the woman in white joined hands. Their friends closed in and blocked them from view. It was still for a second. But suddenly, the circle unwound and people raced for the bar. Bride and groom shared a kiss and dashed after them .
It was four minutes into the second half. The commentator called the game in tones of mounting panic.
“Nein! Nein!’ screamed the crowd as Argentina scored.
A lone cheer from a shadowed corner fell into a leaden silence.
There were ten minutes left when Miroslav Klose flipped the ball into goal. Bronzed arms waved above coiffured heads.
“Deutschland!” clap, clap, clap “Deutschland!” clap, clap, clap..
Shirt-sleeves thumped waist-coated backs. Beach balls and big hair bounced up and down. Brocades smacked kisses on startled red-faces. Bellowed snatches of “Deutschland
Deutschland uber alles” transported the suits
The air buzzed like an electrical field through extra time. People jumped to their feet as the ball spun towards the German goal “Jaaaaaaaa!” then sank in their seats as Argentina snatched it away “Neieeeeeiiiin!
And finally, we arrived at that hour of judgement, that time of reckoning, that Armageddon of football – the penalty shoot out. Glasses were filled, smokes were lit, everyone settled, tensed, readied. The countdown began. “Ein! Zwei!......Drei!...........”
If there was a voice raised for Argentina it was lost in the roar
“Jaaaaaa!” It was a German win! There was shouting, singing, cheering, laughing, crying, embracing - shirt-sleeves and big-hair, suits and stilettos, white-hair and beach balls, waistcoats and brocade, football jerseys and big hair, golfers and bronzées, conferenciers and coiffures, barmaid and barman, bride and groom, all on the same side now, all whirling around in a demented dance. The commentator’s voice was drowned. The TV flickered, forgotten, in its corner. The joy, the jubilation, the disappointment, the tears and the after-match ugliness played on, unheard and unseen, till the screen snapped off and it vanished into blackness. It was over.
The bride and groom led their guests away, out through the French doors, and across the terrace. From a lawn striped with shadows, they threw bunches of white balloons into the fading sky. The trees shivered in the breeze, the fountain dropped curls of misty spray on the pond and beyond it, a group of golfers teed off, then chased specks of white along the rolling green fairway.
There was an emptiness now, in the bar ,and a tiny tinge of sadness, like theone that follows the end of a good book. But there wass also a feeling anticipation and a sense of xcitement too, like the one that comes when there’s more to the story.
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