Players in transit
When I walk back into the apartment, I hear grunts coming from the kitchen. I peek inside and find my roommate, Tyler, amidst a struggle. He’s trying to clean a pan in the kitchen sink. The only problem is that he only has one working arm. Tyler is another quarterback, from Syracuse, New York, who suffered a season-ending shoulder injury a couple of weeks ago. He’ll stay in Germany for surgery and rehab.
[su_pullquote align=”right”]We aren’t being paid to vacation, we’re being paid for what we do on the football field, and if management isn’t satisfied with your on-field performance, then you might as well start packing your bags.[/su_pullquote]
Tyler is a reminder of the transitory nature of playing professional football abroad. It’s a dangerous business, fraught with injury and turmoil. This is still a job, and just like any job, there’s turnover.
Stories flood in from around the league of players being sent home due to injuries, lack of production, lack of compatibility with the team or other issues entirely. We aren’t being paid to vacation, we’re being paid for what we do on the football field, and if management isn’t satisfied with your on-field performance, then you might as well start packing your bags.
I turn on my computer, fire up gfl.info and go to the stats page. I look at “RECEPTION LEADERS.” Number one is Mitchell Paige, which doesn’t surprise me. He came to the GFL after being cut by the San Diego Chargers. Next is the kid from Denmark who has been having a phenomenal season.
I scroll down until I spot myself on the list. I’m tied in fourth, but have the opportunity, with a good game this week, to move into third. The kid who’s tied with me will be blanketed by the cornerback from Clemson, so as long as I secure a few catches, let’s say five, my spot should be secured.
That’s big for me. I’m not a fast receiver, or a strong one, but third in the league in receptions implies competence. In a few months, when I begin looking for a team for next year, that’ll be my trump card—the first point on my resume.
I use the term “resume” loosely because teams don’t care about accolades, previous jobs or university degrees. They care about winning football games. If they’re going to fly you halfway across the world and pay for your living, then you better well bring value to the football field.
Third in the league in receptions versus fourth or fifth could have huge implications. Third could very well secure me a job next year in Copenhagen, Paris or Amsterdam, while fourth or fifth could relegate me to some small town in god knows where, or worse, I could find myself unemployed.
But I don’t stress over that right now. It’s Sunday night, and soon we’ll take the train into Hannover, our neighbouring city, to watch the Hannover Scorpions battle the Hamburg Crocodiles in a pre-season hockey game.
Canadian pride
We get to the game just in time for introductions. The arena is tiny, but packed with bodies, all bouncing around in anticipation. There’s a man beating a drum and the lights have been dimmed for effect. The seconds between each beat begin to narrow; it’s evident the drummer is building to something. The crowd is on its feet and cheering. A voice comes over the PA system.
“Give it up for your… Hanoooover Scooooooorrrrrrpiiioonnns!”
The arena, filled with less than 1,000 people, erupts in a symphony of fanfare. We cheer, too, half-caught up in the excitement and half because, well, we’re cheering for ourselves down on that ice.
We play a different sport, sure, but we recognize the faces skating through the red smoke. They’re semi-professional athletes, similar to us. Under normal circumstances, we’re the ones being exhorted, encouraged and shouted at. It’s nice to be on the other side of things for a change.
The game starts, and instantly, a couple of players begin to stand out. They’re seasoned, better than everyone else on the ice, and they score the game’s first three goals. They receive the loudest cheers when they score and the most vicious boos when they mess up. These are the imports—professional players being paid to play hockey in Germany. And what fills me with immense pride is that they’re Canadian.
I cheer on my fellow countrymen while chiding the Americans who’ve tagged along. The majority of imports in the German Football League are from the States—ex-NCAA players who are significantly better than everyone else—so it’s nice to watch a sport in which they don’t hold a monopoly on skill. Hockey is what we Canadians do best.
The lead changes twice in the final seconds. The fans, us included, haven’t sat down all night, and when the game does end, the score is 6-5 in favor of Hamburg. The import players were responsible for all 11 goals.
We train home and enjoy beer-induced naps along the way. Eventually, the train squeals to a stop and we jolt forward and wake up. I collect my bag, shuffle off the train, then slap hands with Shazzon.
“Cheers, brother.”
“See you tomorrow, my man.”
In a few minutes, I’m back home, comfortable in my bed. The beer has silenced my aching body into submission, and I should sleep peacefully. Tomorrow will be hell again, but I don’t think about that. Nor do I think about how many more seasons of this I can endure.
Instead, I focus on enjoying the moment: lying in bed in a country far away from home, in an apartment where my neighbours speak a different language, and where just outside, new opportunities await me.
It isn’t often that you get to flirt with girls in a foreign language, rediscover which foods you like or fly down the autobahn in a German-engineered car. All of these experiences beckon to me, prod at me, but so does slumber. It’s been a long day. And I still have tomorrow. So I roll over, pull my German covers up to my chin, close my eyes, and go to sleep.
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image 1: Permission of football-aktuell.de; image 2: Copyright footballforum.de 2018; image 3: with permission of the Hildesheim Invaders; image 4: Ben von Jagow; image 5: permission of Brodey Marshall Photography; image 6: Permission of JonKay Photography; image 7: Ben von Jagow
