The Old Heidelberg oozed gemutlich yesterday afternoon, with blue and white paper garlands hammocking the ceilings and a German flag tucked around the base of the wide-screen TV.
John had not only reserved me a seat, he had deposited a plate of wurst and sauerkraut at my place. The long tables filled with people drinking beer reminded me of Oktoberfest.
By the second half, the German team looked spent, having trouble getting the ball past midfield. Forget about an attacking strategy, they seemed to have lost their wanderlust.
The manager's little boy began rolling his toy cars across the floor in front of the TV, as if he were at kindergarten. Then Spain scored, and I imagined Maradona, sitting at home in Buenos Aires and experiencing a feeling of schadenfreude.
