The first World Cup I consciously experienced was England 1966. I was seven years old. Germany reached the final, and I sat next to my dad on the couch in our living room. There is no photo of that moment, yet the image is clearer than any picture: the carpet, the seating arrangement, the tension that stretched through the room like an invisible thread. We lost in extra time, “unlucky,” as people said back then. What remained was watching together.
Four years later, in 1970, my grandfather came to visit. Germany played Italy in the semifinal, a match that later became known as the “Game of the Century.” Because of the time difference to Mexico, it started late. Too late for an eleven‑year‑old, my parents thought. So I lay under my blanket and secretly listened to the match on the radio. Until Schnellinger — of all people, Schnellinger — scored the equalizer in the 92nd minute. My grandfather’s roar was so loud that I could credibly claim I had woken up because of it.
So I sat there in extra time, in my pajamas, between my dad and my grandfather, and witnessed the 3:4 live. Today, that image is more important to me than any analysis of the defeat. Three generations, united by a match. No photo, but an inner picture for eternity.
A Mexican friend later told me that he remembers the places and situations in which he watched his national team play. I immediately understood what he meant. My memories, too, are tied to rooms, atmospheres, and the people who sat next to me.
In 2014, when Germany won the World Cup, my father was 84. For the quarterfinal against France, I drove 300 kilometers home just to watch that match with him. You never know how many of those moments you still have left.
Today he is 96. After years abroad, I am living nearby again, with a second home in the place of my childhood. I am “home” again. When we watch World Cup matches together now, the question is whether he can stay awake long enough. The roles have reversed.
After Germany’s disappointing exit before the round of sixteen, we talked about the fact that he would be a hundred years old at the next World Cup. One hundred. A number you can say out loud and still hardly grasp. That’s why we now look first to the European Championship in two years. A goal that feels closer. A horizon that seems reachable.
My truth in this story: Football is only the occasion. What counts is a life story that stretches across generations and anchors itself in football moments. Football has become an emotional coordinate system. A family archive without photos, but with razor‑sharp inner images. A way of experiencing time, closeness, loss, and connection, held together by tournaments like the growth rings of a tree.
And now I am curious: which places and situations do you still remember today, shaped by football matches?
About me
I am Bernd Scharbert, and I write about experiences from football that can be transferred to business life. Football connects people. That’s simply true. I watched many World Cup matches in the places where I was responsible for chemical plants.
>> In 2010, the semifinal between the Netherlands and Uruguay on the market square in Sittard, at the public viewing in the Netherlands, together with the Business Unit Director.
>> In 2014, Germany’s group‑stage match against the USA in a sports bar in Montreal, Canadian television on site, together with the Canadian plant manager.
>> And in 2018, Germany’s group‑stage exit against South Korea in Ocotlán, in the state of Jalisco, parallel to Mexico’s match against Sweden. Together with the Mexican plant manager and his team. It was pure drama, because Mexico advanced thanks to Germany’s defeat.
Each of these moments is tied to vivid and diverse memories. You never forget the place or the circumstances. Football is its own language and it is understood everywhere in the world.
