Of course, people don’t talk badly about dead people. But no one ever said anything bad about him when he was alive. Franz Beckenbauer was one of those people who you couldn’t be mad at, even if he annoyed you or insulted you or threw you out of your job – or if he just said stupid things, which was often the case. He was called “Firlefranz” at moments like this.
So on this day of mourning, everyone here in the Allianz Arena sits together in rare unity. Players he played with. Players he has coached. Coaches he hired and then fired in anger. Politicians who adored him but ultimately kept their distance. Sponsors who couldn’t get enough of him and later dropped him. Because of the summer fairy tale, of course, this now darned summer fairy tale. Journalists who praised him as a shining light for many years and ultimately worked on him. And of course all the fans who always admired him and who always forgave him for everything. For them, Beckenbauer remains Franz. For them, the summer fairy tale remains the summer fairy tale. Point.
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