To match the jersey, I’ve been wearing a wide grin since this morning that I simply can’t wipe off my face. It feels like a second skin, or even better.

Just a few minutes ago, two older ladies, somewhere in their early 70s, actually stopped me to ask if this was »a real Borsche«. Unbelievable! I was on my way back from Backwaren Sommer, two baguettes from France tucked under my arm. The shop owner, by the way, bears a slight resemblance to Mirko Borsche, which is something I’ve been meaning to bring up with him for a while now. I didn’t do it, though, because I was afraid of that awkward moment where, halfway through my rambling, I realize once again that the other person has no idea what I’m talking about – even though he might have the Champions League jersey of the mighty FC Bayern Munich from the 2024/25 season hanging in his closet. Anyway, he could at least pass for a distant cousin. But moving on.

In any case, all the work we put in over the past year was worth it. And that feels fantastic. I glance at my phone for a second: two missed calls from Mirko. We were supposed to talk later about the flights to Palermo. Flights from Saarbrücken to Trapani are currently so popular that Salvo and I are forced to fly out of Luxembourg instead. Mirko will be flying in via Munich. Makes sense, he’s more of a Lufthansa guy anyway. Ryanair, EasyJet & Co.? People who sit wherever they want just because they can’t handle two hours alone, and would rather spend the 5 euros for a seat reservation on a lovely horse-drawn carriage ride in 40°C heat instead? Not his thing. Fair enough.

Anyway, after landing we’re meeting at Spinnato in the arrivals hall of Falcone Borsellino Airport, for one last strategy chat over an espresso. Might as well check while we’re there if the fan shop already has the new jersey in the windows. Man, this is so cool. Honestly, everything today has been running suspiciously smoothly.

After that, we’ll make our way straight to the Stadio Renzo Barbera, where we’re supposed to meet Gaetano. Oh man, I can’t believe I’m actually writing this. It’s going to happen.

Mirko, Salvo and I walk through the side entrance of the Renzo, laptop tucked under one arm. Quick stop to say hi to Aquila first, of course. Mirko’s more of a dog person really, but he quickly figures out Aquila is no ordinary cat.

The door buzzer rattles. In the stairwell we run into a passive-aggressive guy muttering about something. Not even Salvo, who speaks perfect Italian (and Sicilian too), can figure out what exactly has gotten him so angry. Doesn’t matter, we’re in such a good mood that nothing can touch us.

What’s Gaetano going to say, I wonder? Will he maybe pour us a Paulaner? Or perhaps an ice-cold 958 instead? Or maybe some finger food, schnitzel skewers perhaps, where I’m already trying to figure out the most graceful way to tell him I can’t try any? Or will it be some panelle as an appetizer instead? And will Richard maybe even be there too? God, I hope the man didn’t go through unnecessary trouble for us idiots. Whatever, we’re the Borsche-Tedescos. (And if we’re being really precise, the Aquila-Tedescos too. But let’s not split hairs today.) We’re kind of one of a kind. Weird, but one of a kind. We’re just going along with whatever happens next.

I run through the Italian sentences I prepared for the meeting one more time in my head. I want them to come out smooth, like a gun going off. I want Gaetano and the others to be impressed. I wonder if Mirko speaks Italian? He’s surely got some fantastic gangster-Italian in his back pocket. Of course he does, the man’s already worked with Inter and Venezia and delivered dizzying sales numbers there. And ever since the Athens-Kallithea business, he can probably order his favorite moussaka in several Greek dialects, complete with a perfectly phrased request for the chef to leave something out or do something differently. Which, of course, gets granted without question. Anything else would surprise me.

And there it is, Gaetano’s office. Mirko, Salvo and I exchange a quick glance. Their looks tell me: in for a penny, in for a pound. I take a deep breath and knock on the door. It feels strangely soft. Not like wood at all. I try again, but my hand seems to sink into the door once more. My movements suddenly feel slower, my legs heavier too, almost like I’m walking through water.

Wait, what the hell is going on here? Mirko and Salvo are suddenly gone. I’m standing alone in the dark. I hear something huffing, purring, and there’s a strange smell too. What the hell is that? At the end of the hallway, two glowing eyes appear. Cat-like. Aquila? No wait, that’s a puma!

I take off running immediately. I run, and run, and run, with this stupid feeling that I’ll never outrun a possibly hungry big cat. Shit… this is not going to end well for me. Getting eaten alive by a puma has got to be one of the least cool deaths out there.

Somehow, though, it doesn’t come to that, and I notice the fear starting to fade. It almost feels good, relieving even. But how can that be? And what’s that light? I suddenly recognize familiar surroundings. Wait a second, is that my bedroom door back there? It takes a few more seconds before it hits me like scales falling from my eyes: I’m not wearing a pink Mirko Borsche jersey. I’m not wearing a second skin either. I’m wearing pajamas. Not even proper ones.

That’s when it hits me: the whole day was a dream. The jersey, the calls from Mirko, the flight via Luxembourg, the espresso at Spinnato, the whole drama outside Gaetano’s office. None of it happened today. What actually is true, though: we really have been at this for months, Mirko really is on board, and Palermo FC is (somehow) ready too. And yet it still didn’t happen. How can that be? Four million euros a year, come on. Which club in their right mind would say no to that? After this dream, I know one thing: it can only have been the puma. Nothing else makes any sense.

Some things just need more time than others, I guess. But you know us, we’re sticking with it as always, and I’ve been wondering for a while now anyway whether Mirko Borsche actually knows where Elversberg is. An interesting thought, somehow. Hm, might actually be a smart move for Societas too.