I’ve been football mad all of my life.

When I was a kid, I traveled hundreds of miles every week and visited the outer reaches of Great Britain in freezing cold rain to watch my team. I heard accents from parts of England that I can still replicate to this day and visited places that I have never returned to and probably have no great desire to return to. The northern most parts of England near the borderlands of Scotland are still pretty uninviting.

So here I was in possession of a fabulous ticket to the last great game of the European season. It is a season that stretches from the balmy days of summer through the late spring and lasts longer than any of the great American sports. Actually, it is a season that never really ends because somewhere on the planet, somebody is always playing football, not to mention European Championships and World Cups every other year.

So off to London I went with my Irish mate, Joe, my Bradford mate, Darren, and my Italian mate, Eddie, for the Champion’s League Final at Wembley Stadium.

The Germans had quietly invaded England over that weekend at the expense of the Spanish, the Italians, the French, and us poor English. They had beaten us all and were represented in the final by Borussia Dortmund from the Rhineland and Bayern Munich from Bavaria.

The Germans had done it again.

Their economy was thriving, they successfully transitioned out from reunification, and low and behold they have the best soccer teams in the world, the most successful league, the best cars, the best beer, and I’m not sure if it is a cultural trait, but they seem to work inside the European zone in the most efficient manner possible. Even the food is not bad. Actually our groups seem to vote German food the best of all! Better even than Italy, France, and Spain. There is clearly more to Germany than just bratwurst and sauerkraut!

The red and white and yellow flags and scarves were everywhere. The game was amazing and for me it was especially great to be at Wembley again with 90,000 people. We bumped into Alex Ferguson and Zidane as we walked out of the stadium and headed back to the Tube and the London night. Yes, London even though it has the reputation for not being a late-night city, has a lot of late-night hangouts that we found. By the time we drifted into the East End of London at about 1 in the morning, I remember thinking that I had never seen so much traffic and people milling around the streets ever in my life.

Now in my soccer-free months of June and July, I am learning to transition into the dog day laziness of baseball games at Fenway Park. And that is just fine by me because here, unlike England, we have a summer to look forward to.

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