Kai• ros | Julian Brandt

4.

Once again, that time has come in to the calendar, the so-called international football break. A period, during the regular football season, which takes place a few times a year and all just so that the national teams can measure their strength in each other's matches, in which they fight not only for honor but above all for a place at the most attractive football events - the World Cup, or the European Championship.

And although many football fans enjoy this period, I hated it as a teenager.

Asking why? Well, any professional football league gets a stop sign during this period. The Bundesliga is therefore no exception. Less football on TV, less games on the field, less training units. Logically, less time for me to spend at the Westfalenstadion.

This year, however, I welcomed the international football break with open arms and a big smile on my face. From Dortmund, four players were called up to the services of Die Mannschaft. And here was the reason for my smile. Julian Brandt was one of them. Together with Hummels, Füllkrug and Süle, he flew to America, where Die Mannschaft was supposed to play two matches. One against the USA and the other against Mexico.

These offered eight days, I wandered the corners of Brackel, knowing that no matter where my steps led, an encounter with an arrogant, blond football player would be out of the question. With this knowledge, I breathed a little easier.

I was still angry with him. Mostly because of Diana, who has been constantly sawing my ears since that little insignificant incident in my office. She talked about nothing but him. Julian here, Julian there. She was talking about some kind of sexual tension that she said she felt from us. That what she called it. Me, on the other hand, called that an infinite desire to kick him in his allegedly sexy ass. We each perceived it in our own way.

Diana and I spent the evening of the first match at my place. We had a nice junk dinner consisting of cheese pizza and a bottle of red to arm ourselves against anything that game against USA might bring.

I even dusted off the old German national team jersey that was lying at the very bottom of my wardrobe. All just to tune in to the atmosphere.

Marco's last name stood proudly on it, as well as his beloved eleven. Both at the club level and at the national level, he was my favorite player. And that will probably never change.

While I was cleaning up the leftovers from dinner, Diana was sprawled out on my leather couch. She was holding the phone in one hand, a freshly poured glass of wine in the other. She was checking the lineups for the upcoming match.

"Mats and Niclas start in the starting eleven," she informed me, "ter Stegen is in net," she continued, "Julian and Niki are on the bench."

"Again on the bench? Didn't you tell me that he is a top footballer?'

Diana just waved her hand at my mocking voice: "Just wait, Caro! Jule, he will show you all the qualities he has. And let me tell you that you will not only stand on the football field."

"Any familiar names on the US roster?" instead of reacting in any way to her stupid remark, I diverted attention from our squad to the competition's squad.

"Um," Diana paused for a small moment. She studied the United States lineup thoroughly. "Our Gio got a chance to show off. Oh," her deep blue eyes suddenly took on a heart shape, "and Pulisic is starting, too."

Christian Pulisic, one of the many young American super talents whom Borussia was the first to allow to smell the professional player level on European soil. His transfer to Chelsea was mourned by many BVB fans, including myself and Diana. Diana cried a little more. Her younger self wanted to get Christian into bed. On her list of favorites, he was the one breathing relentlessly down Mats's neck.