was nothing important.’ And Löhr went away.
To the players, it looked as if Marco was messing around and Robert just happened to be there. Robert felt that he and Marco were playing pranks together.
‘Teresa often said, you two together are unbearably silly,’ Marco says. ‘But the times when we were laughing – that was Robbi at his happiest.’
For a professional footballer who was used to everything in life being secondary to sport, in the summer of 1997 Robert received a piece of bad news. He had to do his military service.
He had wanted to do civilian service. But his realism, and to a certain extent his sense of comfort, were stronger than his conviction that he never wanted to serve with the armed forces. Civilian service would have lasted thirteen months; in the army, as a professional sportsman he would have to go through the three-month basic training programme during the summer break but would then be exempted de facto from the remaining seven months of military service, as a member of the Bundeswehr sports promotion section.
Marco Villa was called up at the same time. They ended up in the Köln-Longerich barracks between the A1 Autobahn and the industrial estate of Bilderstöckchen. Radio Operator Enke and Radio Operator Villa.
By way of greeting, the drill sergeant marched up to Robert and hissed, nose to nose, ‘Well then, Mr Super-sportsman.’
‘What do you earn, what do I earn, what do you earn, what do I earn,’ murmured Robert once the sergeant was out of earshot again. Marco burst out laughing.
‘What’s so funny?’ roared the sergeant.
The tone was set.
‘Radio Operator Enke!’ a voice roared across the parade ground. The drill sergeant was standing at the window. ‘Dress code, Radio Operator Enke!’
‘Yes, dress code,’ Robert muttered down in the parade ground, on his way to the cafeteria. ‘Look at yourself!’ He had forgotten his glengarry and his Sam Browne belt. He had to write a four-page essay on the purpose of the dress code in the Bundeswehr.
A few days later his shirt slipped out of his trousers when he was doing sit-ups.
‘Radio Operator Enke, dress code!’
‘What about it?’ he hissed back.
By way of punishment, he had to sprint once around the block. He jogged instead of sprinting.
‘Sprint, I said, Radio Operator Enke!’
The drill sergeant made him run one more lap, but Robert went on jogging. This time he would be like Uwe Kamps. He would never give up. He was hot with fury. If there was something he couldn’t bear, it was the feeling of being treated unfairly.
After eleven laps the sergeant gave up. ‘Off you go, Radio Operator Enke.’
Marco Villa had long thought it was inevitable that Robert was prone to mishaps. Once, when they were in a hotel with the Borussia squad, Marco deliberately headed off in the wrong direction to breakfast. Robert toddled politely after him until they found themselves in the storeroom rather than the lift. ‘He had the worst sense of direction in the world,’ Marco says, ‘and he kept making me laugh every time he cried out in panic, “Where have you got me to this time?”’ Of course, says Marco, he knows that everyone has some kind of Bundeswehr or football story to tell whose charms are hard for outsiders to understand. But for him and Robert, those three months in Köln-Longerich were a treasure-trove. There Robert found a friend who would stay his friend for ever.
Today Marco lives with his wife and two children as a professional footballer in Italy, his father’s homeland. The Italian influence is unmistakable: the tidy Mönchengladbach schoolboy haircut has turned into a fashionably long hairdo. He sits over his breakfast coffee in the Pasticceria Ferretti in Roseto on the Adriatic and talks about the lyrics of the singer Vasco Rossi. ‘You’re more interested in school,’ Rossi sings, ‘but who knows how good you are at the rest of life.’ There’s something in that, Marco says. And he
To the players, it looked as if Marco was messing around and Robert just happened to be there. Robert felt that he and Marco were playing pranks together.
‘Teresa often said, you two together are unbearably silly,’ Marco says. ‘But the times when we were laughing – that was Robbi at his happiest.’
For a professional footballer who was used to everything in life being secondary to sport, in the summer of 1997 Robert received a piece of bad news. He had to do his military service.
He had wanted to do civilian service. But his realism, and to a certain extent his sense of comfort, were stronger than his conviction that he never wanted to serve with the armed forces. Civilian service would have lasted thirteen months; in the army, as a professional sportsman he would have to go through the three-month basic training programme during the summer break but would then be exempted de facto from the remaining seven months of military service, as a member of the Bundeswehr sports promotion section.
Marco Villa was called up at the same time. They ended up in the Köln-Longerich barracks between the A1 Autobahn and the industrial estate of Bilderstöckchen. Radio Operator Enke and Radio Operator Villa.
By way of greeting, the drill sergeant marched up to Robert and hissed, nose to nose, ‘Well then, Mr Super-sportsman.’
‘What do you earn, what do I earn, what do you earn, what do I earn,’ murmured Robert once the sergeant was out of earshot again. Marco burst out laughing.
‘What’s so funny?’ roared the sergeant.
The tone was set.
‘Radio Operator Enke!’ a voice roared across the parade ground. The drill sergeant was standing at the window. ‘Dress code, Radio Operator Enke!’
‘Yes, dress code,’ Robert muttered down in the parade ground, on his way to the cafeteria. ‘Look at yourself!’ He had forgotten his glengarry and his Sam Browne belt. He had to write a four-page essay on the purpose of the dress code in the Bundeswehr.
A few days later his shirt slipped out of his trousers when he was doing sit-ups.
‘Radio Operator Enke, dress code!’
‘What about it?’ he hissed back.
By way of punishment, he had to sprint once around the block. He jogged instead of sprinting.
‘Sprint, I said, Radio Operator Enke!’
The drill sergeant made him run one more lap, but Robert went on jogging. This time he would be like Uwe Kamps. He would never give up. He was hot with fury. If there was something he couldn’t bear, it was the feeling of being treated unfairly.
After eleven laps the sergeant gave up. ‘Off you go, Radio Operator Enke.’
Marco Villa had long thought it was inevitable that Robert was prone to mishaps. Once, when they were in a hotel with the Borussia squad, Marco deliberately headed off in the wrong direction to breakfast. Robert toddled politely after him until they found themselves in the storeroom rather than the lift. ‘He had the worst sense of direction in the world,’ Marco says, ‘and he kept making me laugh every time he cried out in panic, “Where have you got me to this time?”’ Of course, says Marco, he knows that everyone has some kind of Bundeswehr or football story to tell whose charms are hard for outsiders to understand. But for him and Robert, those three months in Köln-Longerich were a treasure-trove. There Robert found a friend who would stay his friend for ever.
Today Marco lives with his wife and two children as a professional footballer in Italy, his father’s homeland. The Italian influence is unmistakable: the tidy Mönchengladbach schoolboy haircut has turned into a fashionably long hairdo. He sits over his breakfast coffee in the Pasticceria Ferretti in Roseto on the Adriatic and talks about the lyrics of the singer Vasco Rossi. ‘You’re more interested in school,’ Rossi sings, ‘but who knows how good you are at the rest of life.’ There’s something in that, Marco says. And he
Similar Books
