The big international news this week is that Pope Benedict XVI has elected to resign from his position as head of the Catholic Church. This announcement came but a day after I had attended Mass for the first time on my year abroad and although it wasn’t a case of rediscovering my faith – this never went away, I was merely preoccupied, predominately by laziness – the service did provide a fairly interesting end to my week.
On Thursday I had the enjoyment of training in consistent weather for the first time in months. Obviously it was bitterly cold and there was an ominous layer of frost on the pitch but this remained constant – no hail, no thunder, no lightning, no tornadoes, no anything.
After a standard session which bizarrely took place with only two balls, I underwent my most nerve-wrecking experience in Germany so far: the penalty kick. At the end of training on Thursdays we play a full-scale 11-a-side match, providing we have the numbers. This time was no different and towards the end of the game, I found myself face down on the turf (ice) having been cynically clipped by the opposing right-back. Naturally I was pleased at having won my side a penalty and not cracked my skull in the process but all joy turned to fear following a shout from the touchline where the coach demanded I take the kick.
Obviously he felt it necessary to remind everyone of my Englishness, which brought about the inevitable digs at our inability to score from 12 yards (or 11 metres over here). I was told to ignore everything I had learnt about penalties at home and advised to do the exact opposite of what our national players frequently do. My nerves weren’t calmed by the fact it took us about 5 minutes to find the spot but once we had, it was just me against a very competent ’keeper.
In the background I could hear one opponent, who incidentally has a huge scorpion tattoo on his chest, trying to put me off. At first I was surprised at his attempts to distract me – it was training after all! Still, his words in general failed to penetrate my mind due to the fact he was rambling on in German at some pace. I stepped up, sent the goalie the wrong way and was overcome with relief. The atmosphere was a mixture of shock at my success, disappointment from those who wanted another reason to prove German superiority (at penalties, I hasten to add) and delight from my team that I hadn’t buckled.
Pearce, Waddle, Southgate – I did it for you.
After this particular session, I got to experience another example of the German obsession with beer. When it comes to the fermented beverage, the Germans are way up there with producing the best in the world. They’ll tell you that Belgium produces a comparable range of fruity beers and that they have a worthy opponent in the Czech Republic when it comes to Pilsner but that England can hardly compete with its kingpin offering of Carling.
As always there was a crate waiting for us in the changing rooms but for whatever reason, it vanished quicker than usual. I assumed that this was bound to happen on occasion and that people would just shrug, return home and perhaps have another few drinks there. However, once the last bottle had been claimed, players all around me whipped out their phones and began calling everyone and anyone to try and solve the ‘Biernot’ (beer emergency). Brothers, wives, girlfriends, dogs were all called in a bid to fix the crisis. My amazement increased when out of nowhere, another crate of beer arrived and the problem was no more. These beers somehow tasted even better and to the Fairy Godmother of Hasseröder, the boys of Blankenburger FV and I salute you.
A few days later I was up relatively early on a Sunday morning, ready to hunt down the local Catholic Church and enjoy a spiritual breakfast of bread and wine. I found it easily enough as it’s fairly difficult to get lost in this town and was surprised to see so many people there considering Blankenburg’s size and its geographical position in the Protestant part of Germany.
My first obstacle was finding somewhere to leave my bike. My lock has recently broken but as I rarely need to actually lock my bike up, I am yet to replace it. I found a fence and placed the bike next to it, trying to make it look as locked up as possible. I figured that thieves are probably scarce in Blankenburg and any that do roam the streets were unlikely to be active at 10am on a Sunday. Furthermore, stealing from a Church is kind of a guaranteed path to Hell and I was confident that none of my fellow Mass-goers would go immediately from blessed to bandit upon leaving.
The Church itself was relatively small and as a result almost full. I got myself a hymn book in preparation for belting out some German worship and went over to place my host in the basket. I was a bit gutted the Church was so plain, expecting carpeted floors, lots of stain-glassed windows, incense and at least a bit of gold – it is a Catholic Church after all. I was also somewhat let down by the bread, which was of typical wafer-style. Being a German service I was hoping for multi-seeded, full corn bread of some unusual colour.
Still, I found myself a spot next to a man who looked a lot like Iranian President Ahmadinejad, which was a little surreal, and prepared myself for the Mass. The hymn numbers were projected onto the front walls, which added a bit on quirkiness to proceedings, and I attempted to sing along, amazed at how angelic President Ahmadinejad’s voice was. The service itself was the same as always (except it wasn’t in English) and despite the disappointment of not receiving any wine as well as the priest’s constant twitching (either that or he was winking at me, God forbid), it was good to hear so much German. And perhaps most excitingly, I got to listen to a man who must surely consider entering next year’s ‘Iran’s Got Talent’. Amen.
blankenblog 
So hyped for sacking off Mitfahrgelegenheit and exploiting “MarcusFabianGelegenheit”