Text: Christopher Heimer

Goats Instead of Glory – Well, Roast Me a Deer
17th International Journalists’ Football Tournament, Lithuania, 9–11 September 2022
A travel report

Druskininkai, Lithuania, Sunday morning: The alarm goes off. 7 a.m., it’s still almost dark outside and raining. My head reports a grumpy hangover, my body a medium-sized case of aching muscles. “So, how do you feel after your international debut?” asks Captain Klemmi from the next bed. Well, how do I feel? Almost 12 hours’ drive there, two boozy evenings, kicking a ball around in a windy 12 degrees, achieving nothing three times on the pitch, conceding a hatful three times in goal, out with a bad calf in the last match and certainly no help to the team, then an even boozier evening … so the answer is obvious: “Fantastic!”

Years ago Klemmi first asked me: “Do you like playing football?” No idea what I answered, but it was probably something like: “Yes, but well below average and completely out of practice.” Against all expectations, that immediately qualified me for Klemmi’s mailing list. Year after year I had to decline because I simply couldn’t fit it in. After three years of Covid, which had swept every last trace of fitness from my body, it actually worked out this time. So I just said yes.

Wednesday, 10 p.m. With an actual half-hour delay that feels like three hours, I get off the train in Potsdam. Klemmi is already waiting on the platform, gives me a warm hug and beams. Two lovely hours and two lagers later I fall into bed at his place. Even then I know: right decision!

Thursday, 10 a.m. Sitting with Klemmi at Exner’s bakery in Michendorf, fascinated by how incredibly slowly the friendly waitress goes about her work. I wonder whether I can be any faster on the pitch. Bernd and Gogo were supposed to pick us up at 10, and the Netto supermarket next door doesn’t sell the Thursday “Kicker”. Klemmi gets fidgety. While I go outside for a smoke, he scribbles a starting line-up on a piece of paper.

Thursday, 11 p.m. local time. The good news: we’re here. The bad news: Lithuanian petrol stations only sell

alcohol-free beer, it’s cold, and in Druskininkai everything is closed at 11 p.m. The rooms are in the basement and freezing cold. Disappointment. Five minutes later we’re sitting on the sixth floor in the suite of our host and organiser Tautvydas, who offers everything he can still find to eat and drink and is visibly delighted that Klemmi and Bernd are back with Team Germany. A warm welcome. I’m sure: right decision!

Friday, 10.30 a.m. After a mediocre breakfast, arrival at Grūtas Park. After 12 hours in the car together the day before, I feel as if I’ve known Bernd and Gogo from dozens of tournaments. We walk past stone socialist monuments, tree houses and various animals. Captain Klemmi mentions that a report about the trip needs to be written, and does so in his inimitably lovable way that makes it clear: I, the newcomer, have to do it. “Headline: Goats instead of glory,” I say as we pass the next enclosure. Which, of course, makes no sense at all and isn’t funny in the slightest. (In German it at least rhymes: “Ziegen statt Siegen”.)

Friday, 6 p.m. What feels like 100 Lenin statues, a two-hour walk with Gogo and a massage in the spa later, the captain has summoned us to the hotel bar. The rest of the team is on its way; dinner is due at 7 p.m. in the dining room. We are kindly approached by Lithuanian representatives of the Friedrich Ebert Foundation and sign a list confirming that we listened to their talk in the afternoon. At least we think that’s what we signed. We’ll see whether a washing machine gets delivered one day. Then the other lads arrive: both Martins, who thankfully look very different; Joscha, who supervised my near-namesake at the film academy; Andreas, whose Spanish genes bring international football class to the team; and Sebastian, who with a blond Mohican looks completely different from all his photos and immediately apologises that the two beers on the drive from the airport have already hit him a bit. I’m meeting all these lads for the first time, and yet after five minutes it feels as if we’ve won loads of titles together.

Friday, 7 p.m. Dinner is served in the dining room. The main course, of course, turns out to be heavy on meat. Martin, Gogo and Andreas immediately offer me their potatoes and share my meat. That’s real team spirit. After dinner things get serious for a moment: Captain Klemmi pulls out the note from Exner’s bakery and explains his desired 1-4-1 formation, illustrating it with six empty glasses on the table. After a short discussion, in which even Klemmi has to admit that the rest of us lack the footballing ability for it, we settle on two back threes – before the friendly waitress starts clearing away the empty formation glasses and completely opens up our left flank. Later that evening comes the good news that the Ukrainian team’s first car has actually arrived after uncertain hours at the Polish border, and the second car is on its way too.

Saturday, 10.15 a.m. The bus drops us off at the venue. Contrary to the original forecast it isn’t raining, but 12 degrees with a Lithuanian wind feels very crisp indeed. Unfortunately, Martin Wilger’s knee is already causing problems during the warm-up. Kick-off finally comes around 11.30, half an hour late. By then our backsides are already pink, as the graffiti on the substitutes’ bench rubs off onto our white shorts. I think of the monkeys in Grūtas Park. Team Baboon is ready!

Match 1: Latvia

We start against the Latvians, who in our experience are very strong. Me up front on the right, a position completely alien to me. After two minutes I realise that every other position would probably be just as alien. Doesn’t matter, though: with our first sensible attack we take the lead through Seb, and afterwards even miss two good chances. Amazing – starting with a win would be a real sensation! Unfortunately it’s 1–1 when the whistle goes after 20 minutes. Still a great start.

Match 2: Armenia

After a very short break we carry straight on. Armenia are among the tournament favourites – and yes, these lads can really play. By now at the latest my form turns out to be even worse than feared. I blame the weak coffee at the hotel, which has completely upset my usual caffeine balance (others say it was far too strong). We fight bravely, and Gogo keeps us in the game with a few strong saves. But going forward we get nowhere. In the end it’s a thoroughly deserved 0–3, which we can live with, especially as better teams were beaten much more heavily by the Armenians. Unfortunately, we also end up with a battered Gogo, who has collided with an opponent and can barely walk. So I put on the goalkeeper’s kit with a 0 on my back – because that’s what has to stand. A clear weakening for the team, especially as we now have one substitute fewer.

Match 3: Poland

We tell ourselves that the Poles weren’t really better than us, but if you don’t score up front, you rarely win. There’s nothing I can do about the goals we concede – which of course is no yardstick. At least I manage to save two or three, which feels good. The most dangerous moment was Joscha’s clearing header towards our own goal, but I just get an arm up. Another 0–3 – at least no more goals conceded than before, I think.

Match 4: Lithuania (Kaunas)

When we meet, their captain – a good-looking, well-trained young man of 1.90 m – asks how we’ve played so far. At the handshake, a smart smile and “Good luck!”. We know we need it. Once again we give everything, but our strength is noticeably fading. Something would actually be possible up front, but we can’t play it through. In the end it’s 0–4; again there was nothing I could do about the goals, and again that is no yardstick. At least I managed to save one or two shots again. And once again the 0 stands – albeit up front.

Match 5: Lithuania (Vilnius)

The air has noticeably gone out of us; everyone still wants to, but not least because of the tight squad situation, nobody really can any more. Now against the hosts, Tautvydas’s strong Lithuanian team. He is actually in goal, but spends the whole match rather bored, leaning on the post. That backfires mercilessly when Bernd “Huckinho” Huck sprints across the entire small pitch in just 40 seconds and nods in a pinpoint cross with sensational nonchalance. Is this the big surprise of the tournament? No – because unfortunately we are already well behind by then. The Lithuanians outplay us mercilessly, and now I lend them a hand too. The first goal is a powerful shot that swerves away, but I should still have had it. Later a high ball comes into the box. As the “six-yard boxes” are tiny, I want to stay put. I should have, because the header would have flown straight into my arms. But Klemmi, who throws himself into every match like no one else, shouts “Keeper!” – and of course I follow the captain’s call. What must follow follows: I’m too late and certainly not good enough, and the header loops over me into the net. And when a Lithuanian who is already lying on the ground more or less accidentally hits the rolling ball I’m about to pick up with ease and knocks it in as he gets up, morale hits rock bottom. Result: 1–6.

Match 6: Ukraine

Gogo wants to go back in goal. Understandable: he can hardly walk, but watching the misery from the sidelines and freezing his backside off is even worse. A warm welcome with the Ukrainians; everyone is glad the lads are here. And then the unbelievable happens: we take the lead. Bernd again, this time with his foot. By then I’m already off – my calf has made it very clear that there will be no more sprinting today. On the touchline I cheer along and shout – by now completely unrealistic – commands like “Go!”. The Ukrainians press, hit the post, and Gogo, despite his injury, makes superb saves. Everyone throws themselves into it – a brilliant fight! Applause for Martin Rahmlow, who slides after an obviously lost ball on the touchline. And then the referee blows the final whistle. We’ve won! Unbelievable!

Match 7: Belarus

The Belarusians’ starting line-up is the first team where even we think: they really can’t play that well. The logical consequence: Martin Wilger, whose knee holds up, fires us into the lead with a powerful shot. But after the Ukraine fight everyone is finally exhausted, and with their first substitutions the Belarusians get stronger. Time and again they miss clear chances; eventually the ball goes in after all. A draw that feels fair. Going forward, nothing works for us any more, and shortly before the end we concede an unnecessary second goal. Final whistle, 1–2. Bitter, but fair in view of the chances. So the final reckoning: second to last! A respectable achievement!

Saturday, 5 p.m. Arrival at the award ceremony at the Snow Arena; the ride over the Neman by ski lift is another real highlight. Except for Bernd – he found out about the lift and suggested it, but suffers from a severe fear of heights. The Dortmund–Leipzig match on his phone isn’t much of a distraction either. Everything is already prepared in front of the Snow Arena. I immediately spot the traditional highlight: deer on a spit over an open fire. According to the others, this year it “doesn’t taste nearly as awful as usual”. Martin Rahmlow even goes back for seconds. The award ceremony, led confidently and charmingly by Tautvydas (at least we think so – he speaks Russian, so we don’t understand a word), is very emotional this time. The Ukrainians, who finished last, are called up first. Huge applause; their team manager also thanks everyone for the support from Germany – by which he doesn’t mean the five-litre beer keg we gave them. After Tautvydas finally honours the Armenians as deserved winners, and Klemmi presents every team with caps as a guest gift, the individual awards follow. Player of the tournament is the Armenian goalscorer.
At the very end comes the honorary award for the “most experienced player”, as Tautvydas charmingly announces it: Ralf Klemm, Team Germany. Great to see all the teams applauding warmly and some even high-fiving our captain, who has been taking part for so many years, practises international understanding at these events with genuine warmth, and at 62 is still fitter on the pitch than the rest of his hopeless team put together. Had there been two more teams this year, Klemmi would have reached exactly 100 international matches with the German Media Sports team. I actually think it’s quite good that it stayed at 98, because that way Klemmi will certainly not miss the next tournament. We received invitations to Georgia and Armenia that very evening. And perhaps for his anniversary we’ll reward him with a place in the top half of the table. A man can dream.

Sunday, 11.20 p.m. I’m home. Everything hurts and I’m dog-tired. So exactly like 7 a.m. before we left, only worse. Thanks, of course, to the whole of Team Germany – you are all really great and welcomed me as a newcomer so warmly that, despite my performance, I’m already looking forward to next time! Maybe by then Wilger will also have found out what went on in room 108.
Thanks also to Tautvydas for the great organisation and hospitality!
Thanks to all the teams who took part and sent a signal by doing so in difficult times!
And once more a very special THANK YOU to the man without whom we wouldn’t have experienced any of this – who takes such great care of the organisation, holds the whole thing together with humour and warmth, leads by example and always stays so modest, the man for whom you’d gladly get cramp and be shown up on the pitch again and again … Thank you to our great captain: Ralf “Klemmi” Klemm! Or, as Joscha likes to say: the fish smells lovely from the head!

Thumbs up for a great weekend!