11 - Conviction - part 3
TITLE: Conviction
PAIRING: gen, Philipp Lahm-centric
RATING: PG, a little swearing
LANGUAGE: English
WORD COUNT: 7608
WARNINGS: Swearing
DISCLAIMER: I do not know any of the characters personally. Points of view are all fictional. Most of the events, however, are fact.
SUMMARY: Philipp Lahm experiences his first World Cup final.
The next day, Philipp wakes up in a very good mood. He watches the Netherlands-Argentina game on TV. Sometimes, he wishes that he could control the cameras to see all the angles and gain a perfect view. But that technology doesn’t exist yet. The first half turns into the second half, then stoppage time, then extra time and still there are no goals.
Even extra time ends and they’re now at penalties. The whole team has gathered to watch. When Javier Mascherano buries his penalty into the net, there is no doubt. It is Argentina they’re up against.
Philipp sees Jogi and Urs together, likely discussing revisions to tactics from data gathered during the match. Suddenly, his phone rings. It’s Claudia.
“Hi Schatzi,” he says fondly.
“You guys really went all-out last night, didn’t you?” She’s laughing. “And now you’ll be seeing Argentina in the final.”
“How is Juli?” Philipp asks.
“Asking for Papa,” she laughs again. “Don’t miss us too much; you’ll see us at the stadium on Sunday.”
“Keep safe,” Philipp says.
“You too,” Claudia replies and she hangs up.
* * *
July 13, 2014. This date will be imprinted in his memory for the rest of his life. Either as the best day or the worst day of his national career. This is his first World Cup final, everyone’s first World Cup final. And it scares him as much as it supercharges him.
Now more than ever, his decision looms in the back of his mind. Doubts start to blossom. He would want one more shot at the trophy, if they didn’t…he pushes the thought out of his mind and squeezes his eyes as tight as he can.
“My ambitions have always been high,” Philipp muses as he talks to Miro on the way to the bus. “But this time…I’m not aiming too far, am I?”
Miro knows how nervous he must be to bring this up. Philipp has always shown one side to the team - his best side - and refused to expose any weaknesses. “Well, we’ve come this far. What are we supposed to hope for?” Miro answers, smiling fondly at his captain.
He sees Philipp take a deep breath and, at once, his features rearrange themselves into that perfect expression of intensity and calm, but he could feel a sharp buzz of current underneath. “One team, Philipp. One team,” he says as he claps a hand to Philipp’s back and enters the bus.
* * *
As he steps out on the pitch, Philipp feels like he is back at VfB Stuttgart, playing his first Bundesliga match as a starter. So nervous, yet so self-assured. Too naïve to really understand what’s at stake.
With a sinking feeling, Philipp feels like it’s a replay of the Netherlands-Argentina match. The minutes tick by, chances are created, yet the scoresheet remains unchanged. The Higuain goal almost sends him to his knees, but then the flag comes up with vindication.
Philipp is so happy the offside rule exists.
Regular time ends and they go into extra time. We shouldn’t have let it go on for this long, he thinks a little angrily but he knows the team is playing well.
“If we keep the pace up, we’ll see positives from here on,” he yells to be heard above the noise in the stadium. The players are in a huddle, and Philipp is in the center. “We played well, good pace, good attacking power, good chances. This is what I need from all of you now, those on the pitch and those off the pitch. Keep. The pace. Up. Argentina’s forwards are getting tired out there. They’re tired, they make mistakes. If we get tired, we lose everything. Let’s make this the last thirty minutes, alright? Keep the pace up! Let’s finish strong!” and everyone’s yelling and clapping and it’s time to go back out on the pitch.
The whistle blows and the game is back on. André goes in for the kill, but Romero denies him. Then Manu gets bombarded with threats of a goal as Messi and Palacio almost score. Philipp’s legs are killing him but he has to go on.
After an eternity, fifteen minutes are over. They collapse in exhaustion one by one. “Water,” Philipp gasps and Per hands him a bottle and a strong pat on the head. His body screams for rest but there are at least fifteen minutes more. Last fifteen minutes, he scolds himself as he joins what is hopefully the last huddle of the match.
“Fifteen minutes! The last fifteen minutes!” Jogi says, and there’s a desperate edge to his voice. “Do you want to win? Then behave like winners!”
They cheer and the bench and staff give the players on the field their last words of encouragement. Meanwhile, Philipp heads to Mario Götze and gives him a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder. “It’s in your hands, Mario,” he says. Jogi must have said something extreme, as Mario’s eyes burn with such intensity when they turn to him. He nods, reminding Philipp of a soldier, and jogs dutifully to his place on the pitch.
The whistle blows. Things get heated in the midfield; the tussles get more intense. With horror, Philipp watches as Bastian goes down after a late tackle from Mascherano.
“Fucking yellow!” yells Manu, but the referee plays the advantage. It seems the Argentinians have it in for Bastian after he collides with someone again, now with Aguero. Only this time, he doesn’t get up.
“Fucking hell,” Philipp swears as he runs over but then Bastian sits up. Philipp’s about to slow down until Bastian turns his head. His heart seems to stop.
“Basti! The fuck! Are you alright?” Philipp’s face is taut with worry and anger. Bastian has been dominating the midfield since the start of the game.
“What? I’m fine, I’m fine,” Bastian says, pushing the medics away.
“Fine?! There’s fucking blood on your face!”
“It’s nothing. It doesn’t hurt,” he says stubbornly and makes to stand up.
“Let’s at least clean it up on the sidelines,” the medic says, but this is a trap. If they discover something serious, he won’t be able to play the rest of the game.
“It’s just a bit of blood,” Bastian persists but with one look at Philipp, he lets the medics take him away. Germany are down one man.
As if Philipp needed extra motivation to win.
As Bastian’s being treated on the sidelines, he’s twitching restlessly. “Is it done yet?” he whines. He sounds like a 10-year-old child but at this point, he doesn’t care.
“Yes,” the medic sighs and he comes back on the pitch to deafening cheers.
Another good sign.
After a foul by Palacio, Philipp restarts the game. Basti. Jerome. Mats. Toni and André play a one-two warily, aware of Argentina’s lethal counter-attacking pace, but then André takes a risk and races full pace down the left flank. As he crosses over to Mario in the center, everything seems to go slow-motion. The ball hits Mario’s chest, bounces off the ground, and, with the smallest of taps, Mario sends it gliding behind Romero and into the net.
The stadium blows itself up. Mario’s hands are raised in victory. Philipp’s running, he’s running to Mario, and he yells, “You did it! You did it!” Someone’s shouting in his ear, German flags are waving, and everyone’s jumping.
With a supreme effort, Philipp focuses on the last seven minutes. He’s definitely not playing for third place, but he’s definitely not playing for penalties either. “Good job, boys! Keep the pace up!” he yells as the team reassembles for the whistle.
The Argentinians are almost done. Philipp sees it in their eyes. How could they win on the pitch if they had already lost the battle inside themselves?
Jogi does a late substitution to waste time. There’s two minutes of added time. Two minutes?! The whole bench is glaring at the referee. Philipp’s legs feel like giving out any second now, but sheer willpower keeps him going.
And at last, at long last, the final whistle blows.
Philipp feels like he’s in a state of delirium. The first one he remembers seeing is Jogi and they exchange a tight, wordless embrace.
“Super, Philipp,” Jogi tells him, just like he does after every good game.
“Thanks, coach,” he says. Then he blurts out, “Let’s have a celebratory breakfast tomorrow morning?”
Jogi looks a little surprised but then nods. He can’t stop smiling. “Sure, Philipp. I’d love to.”
Philipp heads over to the man of the match, Mario. “Amazing goal,” he praises him. Mario still looks stunned.
“It wasn’t…it was all for the team,” he manages and Philipp gives him a tight hug.
He makes the rounds and reaches them one by one: Bastian, who had one of the best games of his life, Thomas, Manu, André, Mesut, Per, Christoph, Jerome, Lukas, Ron… Then he heads over to the Argentinians and shakes their hands. He’s not really the comforting type; he’d leave Bastian to that.
Then Claudia and Juli are on the pitch and he exchanges a warm kiss with his wife. He picks up Juli, who screams, “Papa!”
“You couldn’t be luckier,” Claudia laughs and they both know she’s talking about the win in the context of his decision.
But Philipp says, “I couldn’t, because I already have both of you.” And they embrace each other and Philipp thinks of how blessed he must be to experience such a moment with his two great loves - family and football.
* * *
Despite only getting four hours of sleep and drinking a lot of alcohol, Philipp wakes up feeling completely refreshed. The sun is shining; there’s a cool wind blowing through the camp. The camp is silent save for the sound of birds chirping. He stretches, washes his face, then pads down to the communal house for breakfast.
The table is already set but the room is empty. He sits, drinks coffee, and waits.
Five minutes later, Jogi approaches, wearing a white shirt and cotton shorts.
“Good morning,” Philipp says. “Had a good night’s sleep?”
“Yes. Didn’t have to pore over tactics last night, did I?” Jogi replies and they both laugh at that.
They enjoy breakfast while sharing small talk, discussing last night’s shenanigans: Per’s terrible dancing, Mario getting absolutely wasted, and Lukas and Bastian’s selfie on the pitch. Philipp’s heart squeezes painfully; he understands that this is home.
“Coach,” Philipp says, and at the tone of his voice, Jogi looks up from his plate. He waits expectantly.
“I’m retiring from the national team.”
Complete surprise registers on the other man’s features. Philipp sips his coffee.
“When?” Jogi manages.
“I’ll hand in my retirement letter personally to the DFB this Friday, before we go on break.”
Jogi studies Philipp’s face and laughs uncertainly, still in shock. “You’ve really thought about this, haven’t you?”
“I made up my mind last season,” Philipp smiles.
“Would yesterday’s outcome have changed your mind?” Jogi asks doubtfully, even if he already knows what the answer is going to be.
“No,” Philipp says. Then, “Thank you for the ten years. It was a great honor to work with you.”
They’re at farewells now, but Jogi still hasn’t processed it yet. He opens his mouth as if to speak, but no words come out. Finally, he settles for, “Ten years.”
“Yes, ten years.” Philipp pushes a small, plain box across the table. “For that, a little token of thanks.”
Jogi comes over and embraces Philipp in a warm, paternal hug. Words failing him, Jogi says the phrase he always tells Philipp but which has lost none of its meaning: “Super, Philipp. Absolutely super.”
“Thanks, coach,” he replies as always. “See you on the ferry.” And with that, he walks out of the room, out of Jogi’s reach.
Jogi studies the small box on the table. It’s plain and unassuming, much like Philipp was when he was first called up to the national team. Inside are a pair of tickets and a jersey. Jogi pulls the jersey out first. It’s a customized national jersey, with LÖW written on the back, the number 1 underneath. The tickets are plane tickets to Porto Cervo.
Underneath it all, there’s a note in Philipp’s neat, blocky handwriting. “Take a vacation, Jogi. You deserve it. Philipp”.
Jogi shakes his head and chuckles softly to himself.
* * *Philipp takes off his shades and blinks at the relative darkness of his surroundings. He forgot how dim the sunlight in Germany was compared to Brazil. With purpose, he strides to the reception desk and smiles. “Philipp Lahm,” he says unnecessarily.
“The president is waiting for you,” she says, gesturing to the office door behind her.
Philipp has entered this room on a few occasions, but still everything looks familiar. There is a mahogany desk at the end of the room, where Wolfgang Niersbach sits and looks at Philipp with an unwavering stare.
“Sit down, Philipp,” he says, but Philipp remains standing.
“I’m retiring from the national team,” he says as he hands over a sealed white envelope with his letter tucked inside. It had taken him less than an hour to write. It was all formalities, anyway.
Apparently, Jogi had already told Niersbach because he wasn’t in the least bit surprised. He turned over the envelope in his hands and set it down on the table, unopened. “Löw had told me about your conversation last Monday,” he starts.
This is exactly why Philipp is still standing. “I’ve thought about it over the season, and I’ve come to the conclusion that this is exactly the right time for me to retire.”
“How about the Euros in two years, Philipp? Germany will need you then,” Niersbach replies.
“We have a squad of talented players. And we have dozens of youth players ready to step up to the challenge,” he says.
“But we need your experience,” Niersbach urges. “Your leadership. Who will captain us when - if - “ he corrects himself, “you leave?”
“Jogi and I have the same person in mind,” he says with certainty.
“But he’s not like you, Philipp,” Niersbach says.
“That’s exactly why he should be chosen.”
Niersbach sighs and leans back. “It’s futile, isn’t it? What can I say to make you stay?”
“My decision is final,” Philipp declares.
“Alright,” Niersbach says, although it seems to take him a lot of energy to say so. “Alright, Philipp. Thank you for your service to the DFB, Kapitän.”
“Thank you for choosing and supporting the perfect team, from Jogi, Hansi, Andy, and Olli, to the staff, to the players. Thank you.” They shake hands.
Philipp turns to leave and then stops. “Before I forget,” he says almost sheepishly. Niersbach raises an eyebrow. “I also wrote a letter addressed to the general public. I guess my last request as a national player would be for you to publish that note instead of the standard announcement on the website. I’ll bring it over this afternoon.” At Niersbach’s silence, he continues, “Would that be alright?”
“Request granted,” Niersbach says with a sad smile.
* * *
Once he starts, the words just flow.
“Over the last season, I came to the decision to retire from international football after this World Cup.
"I informed Jogi Löw that I was retiring on Monday. I am happy and thankful that the end of my international career falls together with the win of the World Cup in Brazil.
“This morning I said my goodbyes to DFB-president Wolfgang Niersbach and thanked him for the great teamwork from Joachim Löw, Hansi Flick, Andy Köpke and Oliver Bierhoff as well as the whole team and all DFB-staff of the past 10 years.
“I’m on vacation for 3 days now and have the privacy and time to find mental closure for my international career.
“Thank you for the great time!
“Best regards, Philipp Lahm.”
He sets down the pen and feels as if a huge weight has lifted off his chest. He reads and rereads the letter. It says everything and yet nothing.
I guess there’s a reason I got low grades in German, Philipp laughs to himself. The letter is perhaps not as eloquent as the general public would have liked, but it is short, honest, and heartfelt, much like Philipp himself.
He smiles and tucks the letter in an envelope. Then a voice says loudly, “Papa? Papa?”
He rushes to the bedroom to find Juli awake. “Come here little guy,” he says and carries Juli to his chest. “We’ve got an important trip to make.”
Epilogue
Bastian holds his head in his hands. He’d had another spat with Sarah, which had resulted in her leaving just minutes earlier, slamming the door behind her. He probably shouldn’t have mentioned Adriana Lima during that interview, but he had been way too drunk on happiness to care.
Anyway, what was done was done. He sighs heavily and stands to get a beer from the fridge.
The doorbell buzzes.
Bastian runs out and opens the door with urgency. But instead of a blonde model, there was a blonde man standing in the doorway.
“Oh,” he says, unable to hide his disappointment. “Hi Lahmi.”
“Nice to see you, too,” Philipp laughs.
“So what brings you here?” Bastian asks as they enter the living room.
“I was bored at home. Set up the Playstation, quick,” Philipp jokes.
“I miss the Philipp who was actually trying to be funny,” Bastian says forlornly as he sets down two glasses of beer.
“So I’m not allowed to visit my teammates?” Philipp banters.
“It’s not exactly like you regularly come knocking on my front door when we get time off,” Bastian points out.
“Who were you expecting anyway?” Philipp asks.
“Not you, that’s for sure,” Bastian laughs. “But really, what is it?”
“Just wanted to give you something,” Philipp finally says and he takes out a small box.
“Didn’t know we were getting engaged,” Bastian frowns and he gets a punch in the arm.
“Geez, Basti. I’ve been to Niersbach a couple of days ago.” Philipp looks at Bastian and he sees understanding dawn on his face. “I guess you’ve totally unplugged, huh?”
“I left my phone here and Sarah and I just got back this morning,” Bastian admits. “What did I miss?”
“I’ve officially retired. They announced it on the DFB website last Friday,” Philipp says.
Bastian drinks his beer. “I mean, I know you told me way back and all, but I guess I wasn’t able to process it. Still haven’t.” He shrugs. “I guess it’ll happen during the next international match. Niersbach tried to talk you out of it, didn’t he?”
Philipp nods. “I expected Jogi to put up some resistance, but there were no questions about it. He didn’t even bring up 2016.”
Bastian whistles low. “Guess he saw it coming.”
“He was pretty surprised,” Philipp says.
“So what is it?” Bastian asks, gesturing at the box.
“Open it.” He hands him the box.
Bastian does as he’s told. Inside lies a small piece of dark blue cloth, with the FIFA patch printed on it.
“It’s the one I wore during the final,” Philipp explains as Bastian takes it out and turns it over in his hands with reverence. He shoots a questioning look at Philipp.
“Congratulations, Captain Basti,” Philipp smiles and affectionately punches his shoulder. “Welcome to the club.”
* * *
"He was not only an outstanding player in his 10 years with the national team but always a perfect role model. I thanked him for all that he has done for the DFB." -Wolfgang Niersbach, DFB President
"I'd like to express my respect for what he achieved with the national team.” -Angela Merkel, German chancellor
"There is hardly a better farewell than to be a world champion at the peak of your career. But for the national team, it will not be easy to replace Lahm as a player, captain and a man." -Karl-Heinz Rummenigge, FC Bayern chairman
PAIRING: gen, Philipp Lahm-centric
RATING: PG, a little swearing
LANGUAGE: English
WORD COUNT: 7608
WARNINGS: Swearing
DISCLAIMER: I do not know any of the characters personally. Points of view are all fictional. Most of the events, however, are fact.
SUMMARY: Philipp Lahm experiences his first World Cup final.
The next day, Philipp wakes up in a very good mood. He watches the Netherlands-Argentina game on TV. Sometimes, he wishes that he could control the cameras to see all the angles and gain a perfect view. But that technology doesn’t exist yet. The first half turns into the second half, then stoppage time, then extra time and still there are no goals.
Even extra time ends and they’re now at penalties. The whole team has gathered to watch. When Javier Mascherano buries his penalty into the net, there is no doubt. It is Argentina they’re up against.
Philipp sees Jogi and Urs together, likely discussing revisions to tactics from data gathered during the match. Suddenly, his phone rings. It’s Claudia.
“Hi Schatzi,” he says fondly.
“You guys really went all-out last night, didn’t you?” She’s laughing. “And now you’ll be seeing Argentina in the final.”
“How is Juli?” Philipp asks.
“Asking for Papa,” she laughs again. “Don’t miss us too much; you’ll see us at the stadium on Sunday.”
“Keep safe,” Philipp says.
“You too,” Claudia replies and she hangs up.
* * *
July 13, 2014. This date will be imprinted in his memory for the rest of his life. Either as the best day or the worst day of his national career. This is his first World Cup final, everyone’s first World Cup final. And it scares him as much as it supercharges him.
Now more than ever, his decision looms in the back of his mind. Doubts start to blossom. He would want one more shot at the trophy, if they didn’t…he pushes the thought out of his mind and squeezes his eyes as tight as he can.
“My ambitions have always been high,” Philipp muses as he talks to Miro on the way to the bus. “But this time…I’m not aiming too far, am I?”
Miro knows how nervous he must be to bring this up. Philipp has always shown one side to the team - his best side - and refused to expose any weaknesses. “Well, we’ve come this far. What are we supposed to hope for?” Miro answers, smiling fondly at his captain.
He sees Philipp take a deep breath and, at once, his features rearrange themselves into that perfect expression of intensity and calm, but he could feel a sharp buzz of current underneath. “One team, Philipp. One team,” he says as he claps a hand to Philipp’s back and enters the bus.
* * *
As he steps out on the pitch, Philipp feels like he is back at VfB Stuttgart, playing his first Bundesliga match as a starter. So nervous, yet so self-assured. Too naïve to really understand what’s at stake.
With a sinking feeling, Philipp feels like it’s a replay of the Netherlands-Argentina match. The minutes tick by, chances are created, yet the scoresheet remains unchanged. The Higuain goal almost sends him to his knees, but then the flag comes up with vindication.
Philipp is so happy the offside rule exists.
Regular time ends and they go into extra time. We shouldn’t have let it go on for this long, he thinks a little angrily but he knows the team is playing well.
“If we keep the pace up, we’ll see positives from here on,” he yells to be heard above the noise in the stadium. The players are in a huddle, and Philipp is in the center. “We played well, good pace, good attacking power, good chances. This is what I need from all of you now, those on the pitch and those off the pitch. Keep. The pace. Up. Argentina’s forwards are getting tired out there. They’re tired, they make mistakes. If we get tired, we lose everything. Let’s make this the last thirty minutes, alright? Keep the pace up! Let’s finish strong!” and everyone’s yelling and clapping and it’s time to go back out on the pitch.
The whistle blows and the game is back on. André goes in for the kill, but Romero denies him. Then Manu gets bombarded with threats of a goal as Messi and Palacio almost score. Philipp’s legs are killing him but he has to go on.
After an eternity, fifteen minutes are over. They collapse in exhaustion one by one. “Water,” Philipp gasps and Per hands him a bottle and a strong pat on the head. His body screams for rest but there are at least fifteen minutes more. Last fifteen minutes, he scolds himself as he joins what is hopefully the last huddle of the match.
“Fifteen minutes! The last fifteen minutes!” Jogi says, and there’s a desperate edge to his voice. “Do you want to win? Then behave like winners!”
They cheer and the bench and staff give the players on the field their last words of encouragement. Meanwhile, Philipp heads to Mario Götze and gives him a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder. “It’s in your hands, Mario,” he says. Jogi must have said something extreme, as Mario’s eyes burn with such intensity when they turn to him. He nods, reminding Philipp of a soldier, and jogs dutifully to his place on the pitch.
The whistle blows. Things get heated in the midfield; the tussles get more intense. With horror, Philipp watches as Bastian goes down after a late tackle from Mascherano.
“Fucking yellow!” yells Manu, but the referee plays the advantage. It seems the Argentinians have it in for Bastian after he collides with someone again, now with Aguero. Only this time, he doesn’t get up.
“Fucking hell,” Philipp swears as he runs over but then Bastian sits up. Philipp’s about to slow down until Bastian turns his head. His heart seems to stop.
“Basti! The fuck! Are you alright?” Philipp’s face is taut with worry and anger. Bastian has been dominating the midfield since the start of the game.
“What? I’m fine, I’m fine,” Bastian says, pushing the medics away.
“Fine?! There’s fucking blood on your face!”
“It’s nothing. It doesn’t hurt,” he says stubbornly and makes to stand up.
“Let’s at least clean it up on the sidelines,” the medic says, but this is a trap. If they discover something serious, he won’t be able to play the rest of the game.
“It’s just a bit of blood,” Bastian persists but with one look at Philipp, he lets the medics take him away. Germany are down one man.
As if Philipp needed extra motivation to win.
As Bastian’s being treated on the sidelines, he’s twitching restlessly. “Is it done yet?” he whines. He sounds like a 10-year-old child but at this point, he doesn’t care.
“Yes,” the medic sighs and he comes back on the pitch to deafening cheers.
Another good sign.
After a foul by Palacio, Philipp restarts the game. Basti. Jerome. Mats. Toni and André play a one-two warily, aware of Argentina’s lethal counter-attacking pace, but then André takes a risk and races full pace down the left flank. As he crosses over to Mario in the center, everything seems to go slow-motion. The ball hits Mario’s chest, bounces off the ground, and, with the smallest of taps, Mario sends it gliding behind Romero and into the net.
The stadium blows itself up. Mario’s hands are raised in victory. Philipp’s running, he’s running to Mario, and he yells, “You did it! You did it!” Someone’s shouting in his ear, German flags are waving, and everyone’s jumping.
With a supreme effort, Philipp focuses on the last seven minutes. He’s definitely not playing for third place, but he’s definitely not playing for penalties either. “Good job, boys! Keep the pace up!” he yells as the team reassembles for the whistle.
The Argentinians are almost done. Philipp sees it in their eyes. How could they win on the pitch if they had already lost the battle inside themselves?
Jogi does a late substitution to waste time. There’s two minutes of added time. Two minutes?! The whole bench is glaring at the referee. Philipp’s legs feel like giving out any second now, but sheer willpower keeps him going.
And at last, at long last, the final whistle blows.
Philipp feels like he’s in a state of delirium. The first one he remembers seeing is Jogi and they exchange a tight, wordless embrace.
“Super, Philipp,” Jogi tells him, just like he does after every good game.
“Thanks, coach,” he says. Then he blurts out, “Let’s have a celebratory breakfast tomorrow morning?”
Jogi looks a little surprised but then nods. He can’t stop smiling. “Sure, Philipp. I’d love to.”
Philipp heads over to the man of the match, Mario. “Amazing goal,” he praises him. Mario still looks stunned.
“It wasn’t…it was all for the team,” he manages and Philipp gives him a tight hug.
He makes the rounds and reaches them one by one: Bastian, who had one of the best games of his life, Thomas, Manu, André, Mesut, Per, Christoph, Jerome, Lukas, Ron… Then he heads over to the Argentinians and shakes their hands. He’s not really the comforting type; he’d leave Bastian to that.
Then Claudia and Juli are on the pitch and he exchanges a warm kiss with his wife. He picks up Juli, who screams, “Papa!”
“You couldn’t be luckier,” Claudia laughs and they both know she’s talking about the win in the context of his decision.
But Philipp says, “I couldn’t, because I already have both of you.” And they embrace each other and Philipp thinks of how blessed he must be to experience such a moment with his two great loves - family and football.
* * *
Despite only getting four hours of sleep and drinking a lot of alcohol, Philipp wakes up feeling completely refreshed. The sun is shining; there’s a cool wind blowing through the camp. The camp is silent save for the sound of birds chirping. He stretches, washes his face, then pads down to the communal house for breakfast.
The table is already set but the room is empty. He sits, drinks coffee, and waits.
Five minutes later, Jogi approaches, wearing a white shirt and cotton shorts.
“Good morning,” Philipp says. “Had a good night’s sleep?”
“Yes. Didn’t have to pore over tactics last night, did I?” Jogi replies and they both laugh at that.
They enjoy breakfast while sharing small talk, discussing last night’s shenanigans: Per’s terrible dancing, Mario getting absolutely wasted, and Lukas and Bastian’s selfie on the pitch. Philipp’s heart squeezes painfully; he understands that this is home.
“Coach,” Philipp says, and at the tone of his voice, Jogi looks up from his plate. He waits expectantly.
“I’m retiring from the national team.”
Complete surprise registers on the other man’s features. Philipp sips his coffee.
“When?” Jogi manages.
“I’ll hand in my retirement letter personally to the DFB this Friday, before we go on break.”
Jogi studies Philipp’s face and laughs uncertainly, still in shock. “You’ve really thought about this, haven’t you?”
“I made up my mind last season,” Philipp smiles.
“Would yesterday’s outcome have changed your mind?” Jogi asks doubtfully, even if he already knows what the answer is going to be.
“No,” Philipp says. Then, “Thank you for the ten years. It was a great honor to work with you.”
They’re at farewells now, but Jogi still hasn’t processed it yet. He opens his mouth as if to speak, but no words come out. Finally, he settles for, “Ten years.”
“Yes, ten years.” Philipp pushes a small, plain box across the table. “For that, a little token of thanks.”
Jogi comes over and embraces Philipp in a warm, paternal hug. Words failing him, Jogi says the phrase he always tells Philipp but which has lost none of its meaning: “Super, Philipp. Absolutely super.”
“Thanks, coach,” he replies as always. “See you on the ferry.” And with that, he walks out of the room, out of Jogi’s reach.
Jogi studies the small box on the table. It’s plain and unassuming, much like Philipp was when he was first called up to the national team. Inside are a pair of tickets and a jersey. Jogi pulls the jersey out first. It’s a customized national jersey, with LÖW written on the back, the number 1 underneath. The tickets are plane tickets to Porto Cervo.
Underneath it all, there’s a note in Philipp’s neat, blocky handwriting. “Take a vacation, Jogi. You deserve it. Philipp”.
Jogi shakes his head and chuckles softly to himself.
* * *Philipp takes off his shades and blinks at the relative darkness of his surroundings. He forgot how dim the sunlight in Germany was compared to Brazil. With purpose, he strides to the reception desk and smiles. “Philipp Lahm,” he says unnecessarily.
“The president is waiting for you,” she says, gesturing to the office door behind her.
Philipp has entered this room on a few occasions, but still everything looks familiar. There is a mahogany desk at the end of the room, where Wolfgang Niersbach sits and looks at Philipp with an unwavering stare.
“Sit down, Philipp,” he says, but Philipp remains standing.
“I’m retiring from the national team,” he says as he hands over a sealed white envelope with his letter tucked inside. It had taken him less than an hour to write. It was all formalities, anyway.
Apparently, Jogi had already told Niersbach because he wasn’t in the least bit surprised. He turned over the envelope in his hands and set it down on the table, unopened. “Löw had told me about your conversation last Monday,” he starts.
This is exactly why Philipp is still standing. “I’ve thought about it over the season, and I’ve come to the conclusion that this is exactly the right time for me to retire.”
“How about the Euros in two years, Philipp? Germany will need you then,” Niersbach replies.
“We have a squad of talented players. And we have dozens of youth players ready to step up to the challenge,” he says.
“But we need your experience,” Niersbach urges. “Your leadership. Who will captain us when - if - “ he corrects himself, “you leave?”
“Jogi and I have the same person in mind,” he says with certainty.
“But he’s not like you, Philipp,” Niersbach says.
“That’s exactly why he should be chosen.”
Niersbach sighs and leans back. “It’s futile, isn’t it? What can I say to make you stay?”
“My decision is final,” Philipp declares.
“Alright,” Niersbach says, although it seems to take him a lot of energy to say so. “Alright, Philipp. Thank you for your service to the DFB, Kapitän.”
“Thank you for choosing and supporting the perfect team, from Jogi, Hansi, Andy, and Olli, to the staff, to the players. Thank you.” They shake hands.
Philipp turns to leave and then stops. “Before I forget,” he says almost sheepishly. Niersbach raises an eyebrow. “I also wrote a letter addressed to the general public. I guess my last request as a national player would be for you to publish that note instead of the standard announcement on the website. I’ll bring it over this afternoon.” At Niersbach’s silence, he continues, “Would that be alright?”
“Request granted,” Niersbach says with a sad smile.
* * *
Once he starts, the words just flow.
“Over the last season, I came to the decision to retire from international football after this World Cup.
"I informed Jogi Löw that I was retiring on Monday. I am happy and thankful that the end of my international career falls together with the win of the World Cup in Brazil.
“This morning I said my goodbyes to DFB-president Wolfgang Niersbach and thanked him for the great teamwork from Joachim Löw, Hansi Flick, Andy Köpke and Oliver Bierhoff as well as the whole team and all DFB-staff of the past 10 years.
“I’m on vacation for 3 days now and have the privacy and time to find mental closure for my international career.
“Thank you for the great time!
“Best regards, Philipp Lahm.”
He sets down the pen and feels as if a huge weight has lifted off his chest. He reads and rereads the letter. It says everything and yet nothing.
I guess there’s a reason I got low grades in German, Philipp laughs to himself. The letter is perhaps not as eloquent as the general public would have liked, but it is short, honest, and heartfelt, much like Philipp himself.
He smiles and tucks the letter in an envelope. Then a voice says loudly, “Papa? Papa?”
He rushes to the bedroom to find Juli awake. “Come here little guy,” he says and carries Juli to his chest. “We’ve got an important trip to make.”
Epilogue
Bastian holds his head in his hands. He’d had another spat with Sarah, which had resulted in her leaving just minutes earlier, slamming the door behind her. He probably shouldn’t have mentioned Adriana Lima during that interview, but he had been way too drunk on happiness to care.
Anyway, what was done was done. He sighs heavily and stands to get a beer from the fridge.
The doorbell buzzes.
Bastian runs out and opens the door with urgency. But instead of a blonde model, there was a blonde man standing in the doorway.
“Oh,” he says, unable to hide his disappointment. “Hi Lahmi.”
“Nice to see you, too,” Philipp laughs.
“So what brings you here?” Bastian asks as they enter the living room.
“I was bored at home. Set up the Playstation, quick,” Philipp jokes.
“I miss the Philipp who was actually trying to be funny,” Bastian says forlornly as he sets down two glasses of beer.
“So I’m not allowed to visit my teammates?” Philipp banters.
“It’s not exactly like you regularly come knocking on my front door when we get time off,” Bastian points out.
“Who were you expecting anyway?” Philipp asks.
“Not you, that’s for sure,” Bastian laughs. “But really, what is it?”
“Just wanted to give you something,” Philipp finally says and he takes out a small box.
“Didn’t know we were getting engaged,” Bastian frowns and he gets a punch in the arm.
“Geez, Basti. I’ve been to Niersbach a couple of days ago.” Philipp looks at Bastian and he sees understanding dawn on his face. “I guess you’ve totally unplugged, huh?”
“I left my phone here and Sarah and I just got back this morning,” Bastian admits. “What did I miss?”
“I’ve officially retired. They announced it on the DFB website last Friday,” Philipp says.
Bastian drinks his beer. “I mean, I know you told me way back and all, but I guess I wasn’t able to process it. Still haven’t.” He shrugs. “I guess it’ll happen during the next international match. Niersbach tried to talk you out of it, didn’t he?”
Philipp nods. “I expected Jogi to put up some resistance, but there were no questions about it. He didn’t even bring up 2016.”
Bastian whistles low. “Guess he saw it coming.”
“He was pretty surprised,” Philipp says.
“So what is it?” Bastian asks, gesturing at the box.
“Open it.” He hands him the box.
Bastian does as he’s told. Inside lies a small piece of dark blue cloth, with the FIFA patch printed on it.
“It’s the one I wore during the final,” Philipp explains as Bastian takes it out and turns it over in his hands with reverence. He shoots a questioning look at Philipp.
“Congratulations, Captain Basti,” Philipp smiles and affectionately punches his shoulder. “Welcome to the club.”
* * *
"He was not only an outstanding player in his 10 years with the national team but always a perfect role model. I thanked him for all that he has done for the DFB." -Wolfgang Niersbach, DFB President
"I'd like to express my respect for what he achieved with the national team.” -Angela Merkel, German chancellor
"There is hardly a better farewell than to be a world champion at the peak of your career. But for the national team, it will not be easy to replace Lahm as a player, captain and a man." -Karl-Heinz Rummenigge, FC Bayern chairman