Fic: Ghost in the Machine (Fußball, Loew/everyone)
Title: Ghost in the Machine
Fandom: Fußball
Pairing: Schweinsteiger/Podolski, Klose/Oezil, Lahm/Boateng, Loew/everyone, everyone/everyone
Rating: R
Word count: ~2200
Summary: Germany are playing like a well-oiled machine. There's a very good reason why. (Gleeful post-match total crack.)
Disclaimer: Not mine. All lies.
People wouldn't believe what Joachim Loew makes his players do.
They'd believe the hard work, the punishing physicals, the endless drilling and the jumping jacks and the obsessively constructed set pieces. They expect the precisely practiced corners, to be taken exactly 3.5 inches from the edge to give the most effective angle; the studying all three keepers do in preparation for shootouts; the way he primes his stars for interviews with the media, every single jibe and compliment and offhand remark choreographed to do maximum psychological damage. The German team are players in more ways than one, and on the vast and noisy stage of the 2010 World Cup, Loew is the master puppeteer.
But that's not it, nor is it the strict diet, nor the two-hour time limits he sets on the Playstations because he worries they'll affect the boys' long-range vision. It's the not even the yoga, which is pretty much the last thing you'd expect from a man who despises bullshit so much that his first action as manager of Germany was to fire all the homeopathic and traditional remedies staff and replace the young hippie masseuses with dour, hairy men. Or even the group hugs, which Loew encourages without directly engineering them, because he knows that some amount of freedom and natural friendly interaction is essential to keeping the pressure manageable. He's a planner, not an obsessive-compulsive supervillain, after all. No, the completely inexplicable, unbelievable, ridiculous, top-secret thing is this:
Joachim Loew makes his players have sex.
All of them. Publicly. Together.
Almost nobody knows this, but the seeds of this particular training strategy were sown all the way back in 2008, when the manager caught Lukas and Schweini in the corner of the dressing room before the UEFA quarter-final, arms round each other and nuzzling, almost necking, while Philipp and Miro looked more fondly than sheepishly on.
The scene for some reason did not surprise him, so he turned a blind eye and made sure they'd have some space to themselves for a few minutes before every match. And if they played a little tighter, a little brighter after that, shunting the ball back and forth between them with the largesse of lovers, well, who could blame him for wanting to take every advantage, make use of every strength? There are precedents for lovers and fighters in history, after all, so Loew pronounced himself satisfied and made a mental note to look into the idea some time.
Of course, the plan doesn't come to fruition immediately. Loew barely even considers it over the next two years, busy with the wrangling and backbiting at the club level, and then being bogged down with buying and decorating the new house with his wife. He doesn't even do more than toy idly with the notion when they start training for 2010, and he sees Schweini and Podolski embrace like long-denied lovers when they first meet each other, and then play as if they'd never been apart.
But one day during the qualifiers, when he sees Miroslav by himself in the corner of another dressing room, guilty and frustrated and so far off form that he'd missed a clear shot from only sixteen yards out -- the image of his two young blond stallions comes back to him in a flash, and he finds himself playing matchmaker in his head. Who would do for his striker, he thinks, to take him out of his slump?
His first thought is Oezil. Then he pictures Miro and Mesut, both slim and dark, next to the stout-necked, fair-headed pair he's already got, and his spoon-collecting, bridge-playing, sock and tie-matching mind begins to boggle a little too enthusiastically. And too much enthusiasm is dangerous. He pulls back. Besides, Mesut is doing well enough on his own and doesn't need the distraction.
Then he realises that it doesn't have to be a two-pair at all. Trips will do just fine.
*
"Boys," he says, and gets straight to the point. He's the manager, after all, and if they don't like his idea they can fire him. See if they find anyone better. "Miroslav needs cheering up. Are the two of you up to the task?"
Schweini has eyes closed and his ipod in his ears, so Lukas has to nudge him before they both disentangle from their sprawl on the hideously upholstered love-seat.
"What?" Schweini says, and "Cheering up how?" Lukas chimes in.
"You mean Miro?" asks Schweini, looking to Lukas even though Loew is standing right there.
"Yes. Wake up," Loew orders irritably. "Now, I know you boys are fucking, so do you think you could take him in?"
"You know?" Lukas gulps, and "Take him in?" repeats Schweini.
Loew closes his eyes before he gets dizzy. Maybe Mesut would have been better. Real sharp, that boy is, not like these two idiots.
"You want us to have sex with Miro," Schweini says again, scrunching up his large face. "... Why?"
"For the good of the team," Loew says slowly, like he's talking to children. And then, realising that it is after all quite an unorthodox request, "If it's not too much trouble. He needs shaking up."
Schweinsteiger's face disarranges even further, and Loew decides that it's time for a strategic retreat. Lukas is not even paying attention to the conversation, and has curled back up on the seat in red-faced embarrassment. He has dragged his white t-shirt halfway over his face, but his ubiquitous blush spreads right up to his hairline, making him glow a ridiculous pink.
"Just consider it," Loew tells Schweini firmly. Then he skedaddles.
The next day at training Miroslav misses one penalty, and then two more. The other coaches let out various huffs of dismay, but Loew, observing from his customary perch on the side, sees Schweini shoot Lukas a significant look.
That evening, one dark head and two lighter ones are missing from the postprandial Playstation game. Loew hides a smile, and starts counting a chicken or two.
*
Loew knows his work's been impressive so far, but three fit, happy boys are not going to win him the World Cup. However, the next two players fall into his performance-enhancing sex regime with remarkable, almost fated ease.
The unlikely candidates are Boateng and Lahm, which he still can't quite wrap his head around, having never been one of those people that likes french fries with ice cream, or chocolate with cheese. He goes for Lahm first, mostly because he's the captain, but also because a good coach ignores the defense at his peril. Of course, Philipp's engaged, and could probably get enough sex on his own. But Loew is becoming increasingly convinced that intra-team gratification will reap the greatest rewards. It will keep the boys in tune with one another on the pitch, and there will be paradoxically less pressure to perform in the bedroom because they all know how punishing training can be. There'll be no worries about aggravating anyone's injuries, either -- his boys are professionals, and will know to be careful.
It's an almost perfect setup, and Loew would not be at all surprised to find out that other coaches are doing the same. And because he discusses strategy with Philipp so often, he has no qualms about outlining his grand vision for the team.
"Ah, I see," Philipp nods when he's digested the news."Like the Spartans."
"Exactly," Loew says. This is why Philipp is captain.
"I've my eye on Jerome."
"Mmmhmm," Loew replies non-committally. "I had thought he and Cacau..."
"No, no," Philipp cuts in. "We must think out of the box. Be flexible. Let it happen organically. Don't you agree?"
So he lets it go, because Lahm is right about him needing to be more organic. But Mesut is next, because Loew can't resist it. And because although his form is consistent his eyebags have gotten steadily worse every week. Eventually he caves and tells Klose to blow the midfielder.
"What the fuck?" Miroslav screeches.
"Just do it," Loew says. He dislikes histrionics. "Schweini does it for you, doesn't he?"
"Actually, Luka does it," Miroslav says slightly surreally. "Schweini likes to watch."
"Huh," Loew considers this. He'd assumed the Bavarian would take as active a role off the pitch as he does on it, but it's even better, strategically speaking, if he gets to sit back, take a break. "Well, it doesn't matter. It makes more sense for you to do it than either of them, anyway."
"In what way does it make more sense?" Miroslav is a genius, but always so difficult.
"Aesthetically," Loew says quellingly. "Just do it."
*
The soft-spoken Oezil is the least troublesome player Loew has ever had. He is disciplined, obedient, unselfish, and could not be a drama queen if his life depended on it.
So he is the last person Loew would have expected to march into a breakfast room filled with his teammates, and demand, quite hysterically, "Did you make Miro have sex with me last night?"
Loew drops his bagel, and Klose, a jaw lately stuffed with ham and cream cheese. The ambient noise thunks into plate-clinking silence, and Loew, after making sure no outsiders are present and motioning Schweini to stand guard at the door, turns to his shaky-looking accuser and asks politely, "Did you sleep better last night?"
Mesut blinks. Then he bites his lip. It is one of the more adorable sights Loew has seen since his wife dragged him to Crufts several years ago.
"Don't look a gift horse," Lukas begins, and then someone sniggers, and Lukas throws a bagel, and it all comes together, as the best things sometimes do, in a lively, boisterous, free-for-all food fight which surges around poor Mesut and will probably give the cleaning staff a heart-attack.
Eventually Schweini and Lahm take the boy aside and soothe the bewildered look from his face, glaring viciously at Klose all the while. The striker hovers and frowns and gives a "What did I do?" look, until Lahm hisses, "Get your butt over here and talk to him, you idiot, you can't always be thinking of yourself."
Miroslav looks offended, but he obeys his captain, and a jam-spattered Lukas blushes furiously but says "Awwwww!" in a loud voice. Schweini comes over to hug him, and Loew sees several players looking at them, and at each other, with speculative gleams in their eyes.
Loew feels a thrill go through him at that. The plan is turning out a little messier than he expected, to be sure. But morale, amongst other things, is clearly on the up.
*
By the time they get to South Africa they're a well-practiced bunch. Five or six of the boys will do a routine circle-jerk every three or four days, and if someone needs coddling, or they all need a boost, Loew will put on a nice show in the hour or so before the match. Mesut, who has proven quite unexpectedly and beautifully shameless, once let himself be sucked off in tandem by Miro and Manuel in the waiting room before they faced Russia. It was an inspiring sight, and there was no shortage of testosterone when the game began.
As with anything, of course, there are wrinkles to iron out. Loew learns to ask for extra foam pillows and towels and padded mats, and to keep an eye on Sami, who does not seem to understand the 'no visible marks' rule no matter how many times it's explained. He also has to make a rule banning sex during half-time, because even quickies take time, and there are actually highly important things for them to run through in those fifteen short minutes. And also because Mueller had been so uselessly blissed out that one time that he'd had to leave him on the bench in the second half.
But all in all, the Spartan sex strategy is an unqualified success, and when at last their first match of the final arrives, the vibes in the changing room feel palpably different to the usual first night jitters. Instead of the pacing and praying and muttering his boys are laughing and energised, and Lukas and Schweini are necking in the corner like a pair of Greek statues come to life.
Loew has written a short speech, but he doesn't feel like he needs it. He's proven right just eight minutes into the game, when a grinning Podolski finds the back of the net, and then again eighteen, and sixty, and sixty-two minutes later; and before he knows it, the pitifully named "socceroos" are limping off the pitch without any idea of what hit them.
It's the beginning of a beautiful and extraordinarily productive season for the team, and the commentators back home give credit to the German team spirit and rhapsodise about the magical Geist in the world's greatest footballing machine.
Loew knows better, of course. It's not magic, but a simple question of mechanical engineering: if you want a machine to run smoothly, the first thing you need is the lube.
Fandom: Fußball
Pairing: Schweinsteiger/Podolski, Klose/Oezil, Lahm/Boateng, Loew/everyone, everyone/everyone
Rating: R
Word count: ~2200
Summary: Germany are playing like a well-oiled machine. There's a very good reason why. (Gleeful post-match total crack.)
Disclaimer: Not mine. All lies.
People wouldn't believe what Joachim Loew makes his players do.
They'd believe the hard work, the punishing physicals, the endless drilling and the jumping jacks and the obsessively constructed set pieces. They expect the precisely practiced corners, to be taken exactly 3.5 inches from the edge to give the most effective angle; the studying all three keepers do in preparation for shootouts; the way he primes his stars for interviews with the media, every single jibe and compliment and offhand remark choreographed to do maximum psychological damage. The German team are players in more ways than one, and on the vast and noisy stage of the 2010 World Cup, Loew is the master puppeteer.
But that's not it, nor is it the strict diet, nor the two-hour time limits he sets on the Playstations because he worries they'll affect the boys' long-range vision. It's the not even the yoga, which is pretty much the last thing you'd expect from a man who despises bullshit so much that his first action as manager of Germany was to fire all the homeopathic and traditional remedies staff and replace the young hippie masseuses with dour, hairy men. Or even the group hugs, which Loew encourages without directly engineering them, because he knows that some amount of freedom and natural friendly interaction is essential to keeping the pressure manageable. He's a planner, not an obsessive-compulsive supervillain, after all. No, the completely inexplicable, unbelievable, ridiculous, top-secret thing is this:
Joachim Loew makes his players have sex.
All of them. Publicly. Together.
Almost nobody knows this, but the seeds of this particular training strategy were sown all the way back in 2008, when the manager caught Lukas and Schweini in the corner of the dressing room before the UEFA quarter-final, arms round each other and nuzzling, almost necking, while Philipp and Miro looked more fondly than sheepishly on.
The scene for some reason did not surprise him, so he turned a blind eye and made sure they'd have some space to themselves for a few minutes before every match. And if they played a little tighter, a little brighter after that, shunting the ball back and forth between them with the largesse of lovers, well, who could blame him for wanting to take every advantage, make use of every strength? There are precedents for lovers and fighters in history, after all, so Loew pronounced himself satisfied and made a mental note to look into the idea some time.
Of course, the plan doesn't come to fruition immediately. Loew barely even considers it over the next two years, busy with the wrangling and backbiting at the club level, and then being bogged down with buying and decorating the new house with his wife. He doesn't even do more than toy idly with the notion when they start training for 2010, and he sees Schweini and Podolski embrace like long-denied lovers when they first meet each other, and then play as if they'd never been apart.
But one day during the qualifiers, when he sees Miroslav by himself in the corner of another dressing room, guilty and frustrated and so far off form that he'd missed a clear shot from only sixteen yards out -- the image of his two young blond stallions comes back to him in a flash, and he finds himself playing matchmaker in his head. Who would do for his striker, he thinks, to take him out of his slump?
His first thought is Oezil. Then he pictures Miro and Mesut, both slim and dark, next to the stout-necked, fair-headed pair he's already got, and his spoon-collecting, bridge-playing, sock and tie-matching mind begins to boggle a little too enthusiastically. And too much enthusiasm is dangerous. He pulls back. Besides, Mesut is doing well enough on his own and doesn't need the distraction.
Then he realises that it doesn't have to be a two-pair at all. Trips will do just fine.
*
"Boys," he says, and gets straight to the point. He's the manager, after all, and if they don't like his idea they can fire him. See if they find anyone better. "Miroslav needs cheering up. Are the two of you up to the task?"
Schweini has eyes closed and his ipod in his ears, so Lukas has to nudge him before they both disentangle from their sprawl on the hideously upholstered love-seat.
"What?" Schweini says, and "Cheering up how?" Lukas chimes in.
"You mean Miro?" asks Schweini, looking to Lukas even though Loew is standing right there.
"Yes. Wake up," Loew orders irritably. "Now, I know you boys are fucking, so do you think you could take him in?"
"You know?" Lukas gulps, and "Take him in?" repeats Schweini.
Loew closes his eyes before he gets dizzy. Maybe Mesut would have been better. Real sharp, that boy is, not like these two idiots.
"You want us to have sex with Miro," Schweini says again, scrunching up his large face. "... Why?"
"For the good of the team," Loew says slowly, like he's talking to children. And then, realising that it is after all quite an unorthodox request, "If it's not too much trouble. He needs shaking up."
Schweinsteiger's face disarranges even further, and Loew decides that it's time for a strategic retreat. Lukas is not even paying attention to the conversation, and has curled back up on the seat in red-faced embarrassment. He has dragged his white t-shirt halfway over his face, but his ubiquitous blush spreads right up to his hairline, making him glow a ridiculous pink.
"Just consider it," Loew tells Schweini firmly. Then he skedaddles.
The next day at training Miroslav misses one penalty, and then two more. The other coaches let out various huffs of dismay, but Loew, observing from his customary perch on the side, sees Schweini shoot Lukas a significant look.
That evening, one dark head and two lighter ones are missing from the postprandial Playstation game. Loew hides a smile, and starts counting a chicken or two.
*
Loew knows his work's been impressive so far, but three fit, happy boys are not going to win him the World Cup. However, the next two players fall into his performance-enhancing sex regime with remarkable, almost fated ease.
The unlikely candidates are Boateng and Lahm, which he still can't quite wrap his head around, having never been one of those people that likes french fries with ice cream, or chocolate with cheese. He goes for Lahm first, mostly because he's the captain, but also because a good coach ignores the defense at his peril. Of course, Philipp's engaged, and could probably get enough sex on his own. But Loew is becoming increasingly convinced that intra-team gratification will reap the greatest rewards. It will keep the boys in tune with one another on the pitch, and there will be paradoxically less pressure to perform in the bedroom because they all know how punishing training can be. There'll be no worries about aggravating anyone's injuries, either -- his boys are professionals, and will know to be careful.
It's an almost perfect setup, and Loew would not be at all surprised to find out that other coaches are doing the same. And because he discusses strategy with Philipp so often, he has no qualms about outlining his grand vision for the team.
"Ah, I see," Philipp nods when he's digested the news."Like the Spartans."
"Exactly," Loew says. This is why Philipp is captain.
"I've my eye on Jerome."
"Mmmhmm," Loew replies non-committally. "I had thought he and Cacau..."
"No, no," Philipp cuts in. "We must think out of the box. Be flexible. Let it happen organically. Don't you agree?"
So he lets it go, because Lahm is right about him needing to be more organic. But Mesut is next, because Loew can't resist it. And because although his form is consistent his eyebags have gotten steadily worse every week. Eventually he caves and tells Klose to blow the midfielder.
"What the fuck?" Miroslav screeches.
"Just do it," Loew says. He dislikes histrionics. "Schweini does it for you, doesn't he?"
"Actually, Luka does it," Miroslav says slightly surreally. "Schweini likes to watch."
"Huh," Loew considers this. He'd assumed the Bavarian would take as active a role off the pitch as he does on it, but it's even better, strategically speaking, if he gets to sit back, take a break. "Well, it doesn't matter. It makes more sense for you to do it than either of them, anyway."
"In what way does it make more sense?" Miroslav is a genius, but always so difficult.
"Aesthetically," Loew says quellingly. "Just do it."
*
The soft-spoken Oezil is the least troublesome player Loew has ever had. He is disciplined, obedient, unselfish, and could not be a drama queen if his life depended on it.
So he is the last person Loew would have expected to march into a breakfast room filled with his teammates, and demand, quite hysterically, "Did you make Miro have sex with me last night?"
Loew drops his bagel, and Klose, a jaw lately stuffed with ham and cream cheese. The ambient noise thunks into plate-clinking silence, and Loew, after making sure no outsiders are present and motioning Schweini to stand guard at the door, turns to his shaky-looking accuser and asks politely, "Did you sleep better last night?"
Mesut blinks. Then he bites his lip. It is one of the more adorable sights Loew has seen since his wife dragged him to Crufts several years ago.
"Don't look a gift horse," Lukas begins, and then someone sniggers, and Lukas throws a bagel, and it all comes together, as the best things sometimes do, in a lively, boisterous, free-for-all food fight which surges around poor Mesut and will probably give the cleaning staff a heart-attack.
Eventually Schweini and Lahm take the boy aside and soothe the bewildered look from his face, glaring viciously at Klose all the while. The striker hovers and frowns and gives a "What did I do?" look, until Lahm hisses, "Get your butt over here and talk to him, you idiot, you can't always be thinking of yourself."
Miroslav looks offended, but he obeys his captain, and a jam-spattered Lukas blushes furiously but says "Awwwww!" in a loud voice. Schweini comes over to hug him, and Loew sees several players looking at them, and at each other, with speculative gleams in their eyes.
Loew feels a thrill go through him at that. The plan is turning out a little messier than he expected, to be sure. But morale, amongst other things, is clearly on the up.
*
By the time they get to South Africa they're a well-practiced bunch. Five or six of the boys will do a routine circle-jerk every three or four days, and if someone needs coddling, or they all need a boost, Loew will put on a nice show in the hour or so before the match. Mesut, who has proven quite unexpectedly and beautifully shameless, once let himself be sucked off in tandem by Miro and Manuel in the waiting room before they faced Russia. It was an inspiring sight, and there was no shortage of testosterone when the game began.
As with anything, of course, there are wrinkles to iron out. Loew learns to ask for extra foam pillows and towels and padded mats, and to keep an eye on Sami, who does not seem to understand the 'no visible marks' rule no matter how many times it's explained. He also has to make a rule banning sex during half-time, because even quickies take time, and there are actually highly important things for them to run through in those fifteen short minutes. And also because Mueller had been so uselessly blissed out that one time that he'd had to leave him on the bench in the second half.
But all in all, the Spartan sex strategy is an unqualified success, and when at last their first match of the final arrives, the vibes in the changing room feel palpably different to the usual first night jitters. Instead of the pacing and praying and muttering his boys are laughing and energised, and Lukas and Schweini are necking in the corner like a pair of Greek statues come to life.
Loew has written a short speech, but he doesn't feel like he needs it. He's proven right just eight minutes into the game, when a grinning Podolski finds the back of the net, and then again eighteen, and sixty, and sixty-two minutes later; and before he knows it, the pitifully named "socceroos" are limping off the pitch without any idea of what hit them.
It's the beginning of a beautiful and extraordinarily productive season for the team, and the commentators back home give credit to the German team spirit and rhapsodise about the magical Geist in the world's greatest footballing machine.
Loew knows better, of course. It's not magic, but a simple question of mechanical engineering: if you want a machine to run smoothly, the first thing you need is the lube.