Sunday
Berlin to Gelsenkirchen
The early morning train arrived in Bochum only half an hour late, which was basically a knee-jerk victory considering the current state of German railways. A friend came from London to watch England play Slovakia. It was his first experience of England at a major tournament, and as we piled into a crowded tram and headed towards Gelsenkirchen, his bewildered eyes reminded us how strange the whole ritual of football travel is. Overcrowding, forced intimacy, loud masculinity, and you quickly get used to the sight of people peeing on leaves. “Fat guys in polyester shirts smell bad,” my startled friend later messaged me. “It smells bad.”
on Monday
Bochum to Berlin
I have been living in Berlin for the past three years. There are many benefits to this arrangement: a wider view of the world, free childcare, unlimited access to salty bread products. But this summer is the best part. By far the most difficult aspect of this ridiculously cool job is being away from home, and summer tournaments can be a good thing or a bad thing in that regard: not being able to see your family or see the color white for a month Towels in other colors. This summer I was able to catch the train home after the game. Do some light work. Picking up children from daycare. Lift them to my shoulders. Watch them bicker hysterically over salty bread products. Feel an intense, grounding joy that you might also call pure happiness.
Tuesday
Berlin to Leipzig
There’s nothing against the towns of the Ruhr area – hey, I love gray concrete boxes and petrochemical plants as much as the next person – but once you cross the old border into the east, things change. Leipzig is a wonder, a city about the size of Leeds but with the feel of a village, full of interesting architecture, green spaces, artists and creativity. Tonight, mainly Turks and Austrians. It was the game of the tournament so far: a game of biblical epic proportions between two teams playing at lightning speed in lashing rain, in what was essentially a giant leap into the unknown for them. Turkey won 2-1; Arda Guler officiated the game; Mert Gunok made the save of the century; everyone basically left the pitch looking like they had drowned.
Wednesday
Leipzig to Berlin
“So,” I asked football editor Marcus, “is this more of a diary of what I do, or of inner thoughts? Am I a chronicler of names, facts and places, or is it a diary of inner thoughts? Chronicler of life and all its screaming darkness? Because the last time I did this in Qatar, I positioned it somewhere between the two, with Piers Morgan describing it as “fake World Cup virtue signaling” by ” Courtesy of Awakening Spending Magazine. Because there’s a paradox here, right? A diary is supposed to be a container for our most private thoughts, and yet, this diary was conceived and written with a broad audience in mind. Well, one Audience. “Are you going to make me a character in the diary? “Marcus replied. “Don’t do that. “
Thursday
Berlin
Colleagues discuss how England will vote in the general election. The broad consensus is: Jordan Pickford is likely not to vote, Kyle Walker and Harry Kane go to the Conservatives, Kieran Trippier and Bukayo Saka go to Labour, Kobe Manu goes Declan Rice tactically voted for the Lib Dems over an independent who pledged to keep local mobile libraries open. Meanwhile, Phil Foden kept trying to use Jude Bellingham’s vote and vice versa, and then Cole Palmer came along and did For the same thing, they just put a bunch of indiscriminate crosses and the whole thing ended up being ruined. Who says political satire is dead?
Friday
Berlin to Hamburg
One thing no one tells you about covering a game is how little you end up seeing. While everyone at home has developed flipcharts and viewing schedules, for working reporters the game is largely glimpsed: a TV flickering silently in a crowded media center, a buffered cellphone screen on a long train ride . “Where were you at the Germany vs. Spain match?” my grandchildren will ask me one day, almost certainly not expecting a reply: “At a sausage stall in Hamburg, among about 175 people shaking their heads, nervously Watch Shaky iPad Stream.” Is this a good game? Sadly, I have no idea.
Saturday
Hamburg to Dusseldorf
France entered a penalty shootout against Portugal. Returned to the hotel around 2am. Later, the police were called because Portuguese fans were rioting in the bar. It’s a miracle, then, that your sleep-deprived journalist still managed to reach the start line of the parkrun in Hamburg’s Alstervorland. Let’s just say the personal best hasn’t been recorded yet. Then it’s off to Dusseldorf, where the week ends in a pleasant loop, just as it began, in a German industrial town where every sight is filled with England shirts and the smell of polyester. How do they say the journey is more important than the destination?
