#schweingstieger

Yesterday, at about 2:30 in the afternoon on the West Coast, 11:30 in the evening in Berlin, most bars, restaurants, public parks with projection screens and Copacabana beach exploded in jubilation or agony.  

Two men, one holding his black jean clad knees, on two burgundy couches in an L shape also let out two simultaneous screams, a mix of wonder and relief.  And then, like a rubber band, they snapped back into tense, smoke filled silence for nine more minutes.  We'd seen matches slip away before. 

In the 113th minute of the 2014 World Cup final, Mario Goetze the 22 year old wunderkind, struck with his blessed, weaker left foot an exceptional cross goal strike off of a zippy, chest high pass from Andre Scheurrle.  Germany had escaped 3 good Argentine chances and had hit the post once, but all of a sudden, with their best opportunity arriving in an instant, they buried it.  Nine gut wrenching minutes later, the German National team had won the World Cup for the first time since 1990 and captured its first trophy since the 1996 Euro Cup.  The tactically rebuilt and youth infused soccer program that was first started by Jurgen Klinsman and seen through by current manager Jogi Loew had reached its apex and I had seen my first soccer cup victory.  (The 1996 Euro Cup was not shown in the U.S.)  

After it was over, the two men were euphoric.  I unbent my knees and heard them crack, my dad screamed a bassy, throaty yell.  Then, me and my dad hugged, tightly, our strongest union, strengthened further. My mom and dog came home and we had bagels, watching the goal that sealed it over and over, dissecting every contribution that led to the victory.  My dad said that he still thought Loew should have taken more strikers in the squad.  

I watch most sporting events in bars or at friend's houses, but not the German national team. Since I was 10 years old, I have watched almost every game of Die Mannschaft at my parent's house, whether in San Francisco or elsewhere.  My first sad sports memory is the 1994 World Cup, Germany losing to Bulgaria.  My dad and I have watched friendlies versus Azerbajan and Monaco, we have watched them play too tight against Spain and Italy and we saw them unable to find the net against Croatia. We know and love this team.  

Since 1998, when my parents moved to this house, I have watched soccer in the sunset.  I sit on the couch by the large window that's sticky with dog nose prints.  My dad sits behind me, smoking, on a nicer, older, leather burgundy couch.  The dog is sometimes on the floor next to us, and sometimes with my mom; who is either keeping track of the game at work or watching on her computer.  My pops and I rarely talk during the match, although we do exchange a few ideas and celebrate large moments.  But we often break down the games, the key moments and the little decisions, well after every game is over.  

Almost more importantly, the history of games watched, the defeats and victories witnessed either together or separately, have left a lot of impressions, memories and connections that crop up at the most surprising times.  

I frequently recall when I was on a senior trip in San Diego in 12th grade and Germany played Cameroon, and I watched with a bunch of Irish 20 somethings staying in the same hostel as me.   We flipped between Germany-Cameroon and Ireland-Saudi Arabia, the final games of group play, me the only non Ireland fan among them, demanding we go back to the other channel, both Germany and Ireland needing to win to go through.  

Or when Miroslav Klose scored against Turkey in the 2008 European championship, the transmission of the game went dark for a few minutes and all me and my dad could hear was the screaming of fans, who we had to hope were German.  And now, when I watch, there is the ever present awareness that the feed can just go dark at a critical moment so special attention must be paid.  

After flaming out in the group stages of the European Cup twice in 2000 and 2004, the entire national team philosophy had to be retooled.  From 2006 onward, when 5 of the current World Cup winners were part of the team that finished third in 2006.  The team that started it all.  The German national team has scratched and clawed to be not just a former soccer power, but a current one.

In 2006, Bastian Schweinsteiger the former German center forward turned midfielder, was 22, as was I.  Although we have no actual connection, this current generation of German talent, especially its veterans are mean more to me than most players because I have watched them grow up. When they first started playing for the national team, they were they same age as me.  They developed as players, as I developed into a fan of the team independent from my dad.  It's incredibly satisfying to watch the same group of players evolve, buttressed by additional components and work together to lead Die Mannschaft to this: their coronation ceremony. Their victory has a gravitas, and I am happy for Podolski, Schweiny, Klose and Lahm in a way that is likely never going to be repeated.

It's hard to convey through words the series of bizarre superstitions, habits, desires and irrational attachments that is fandom.  The fact of the matter is though, like with all things you really care about, it's out of your control after a certain point, you can ignore your caring or give in, but it's there.

It's even harder to convey the joy one feels when a group of strangers wins a magical game long after the sun set in Brazil.  But to me, it felt like the culmination.  The culmination of the journey the soccer team that I love has taken, certain players, who drowned out every whisper of their shortcomings and agonized over their painfully close losses.  Players, going from 18-20 year old children to 30 year old men, fighting 12 years to raise the trophy.  Fighting to be free of the past and be great in the present.