DrHis stories from a bygone era can’t really be expected from a contemporary person today. This author Oscar Beck’s sharp thesis should be taken on his own as pessimism about purpose. Sports journalist born in 1949 intoxicated with everything he saw, experienced, absorbed and felt, thus publishing it in his 50 years as a journalist.
He was not a crazy reporter, his texts are very convenient for that. His expeditions led to the stories behind the stories. Why was Johan Cruyff just a shadow of himself in the 1974 World Cup Final in Munich? Yes, Hans Hubert Vogts’ “terrier” was chasing after him, but it’s only half the story. No more will be revealed at this point. The personal record of those Beck dedicates himself to range from Andre Agassi to Zinedine Zidane.
But where is the minimum age for “Late Born”, as Beck addresses those who have had such notable names as Dieter Baumann, George Best, Hans Blickensdorfer, Jimmy Connors, Joachim Dekarem, Helmut Haller, Armin Harry, Ben Johnson, Billie Jean King, Rudolph Kritlin, Gustav “Bobby” Schulze or Mike Tyson could still do absolutely anything? That’s a promise: For those born too late, this is an entertaining journey through time and discovery, and for those of us who are nostalgic in the old classroom, it’s a re-encounter with the influence of aha.
Beck is someone who shows a clear advantage and formulates accordingly. Referee Gottfried Denst, who awarded the English a goal against Helmut Schön decades ago (goal or not?), is punished by Swabian who admitted he was an “atheist whistle”. Beck takes the toothpaste story from fellow countryman Bowman, in the tax case Ole Hoeness excels when he is imprisoned, pity rather than malice.
By Beck’s admission he only reaches a linguistic limit when it comes to praising someone like Messi, when everything has already been said, but also everything. Beck’s treasure trove of quotes is a treasure trove, he retained his constant sympathy for daring genres and became a soft focus when sports, like fencer Matthias Behr, become the tragedy of his life. Or when Beck remembers Gertrude Ederel, who was the first woman to swim in the English Channel in August 1926 – she was first celebrated by the world, and then forgotten by the world.
There is a poem by the realist Vorstopper Hans-Georg Schwarzenbeck, without which Franz Beckenbauer, an “extraordinary creature”, would not have risen to become a figure of light. It is an enviable vital language, through which this so-called “pencil sharpener” comes to work in our times with the help of a computer. “The number 10 is the diva among the numbers on its back,” a phrase that goes on forever. For him, great sport has always been a great stage with great emotions.
No, it was like that and nothing else
He is a passionate lover of life-affirming football. Otherwise, how could he have celebrated the football that Guenter Netzer dreamed of in London at the European Championship finals with a hymn as he did. Church bells rang, and historians in the stands would dip their pens in gold ink as if they were electrified, for the unique record of posterity of late-borns. Nope, it was no different. Helmut Schön once admitted that he always sifted through the video with the Wembley match when he felt it was a mood enhancer. Beck’s conclusion: “If he took the video with him to heaven, the angels there would still move his guitars to one side.”
The time of the economic miracle extended, he courted, he endured, and he had an abundance of possibilities for willing clerks. “At that time, football players and journalists were still able to trust the dialogues,” Beck recalls wistfully. Boulevard and Max Merkel, this Viennese bastard with his “evil courage to face brutal truth,” played one-to-two. When Ernst Abel signed with Hamburger SV, the greatest satirist in his class allowed himself to notice that his fellow Austrian in the training bench looked “like Beethoven in the final”.
It is a matter of self-denial when Beck answers the question of whether everything was better in the past with the phrase, “Everything was different in the past.” Then, after examining the state of sport and its place in society, he at least admits that he mourned the old days. His “crazy journalistic days, when luck and luck shake hands at the same time” were neither luck nor luck, but the essence of his curiosity and passion. They made it what his book is about.