„WALKÜRE“ R. Wagner / FIRST ACT
Some Sieglindes, Siegmunds and Hundings
Maria Müller (29 January 1898 – 15 March 1958); Czech-Austrian lyric/dramatic soprano, Emanuel List (22 March 1888 - 21 June 1967; Austrian-American bass and Franz Völker (31 March 1899 – 4 December 1965); dramatic tenor, Bayreuth, 1933
Maria Müller as Sieglinde, Bayreuth, 1937
Martha Leffler-Burckhardt (16 June 1865 -14 May 1954); German soprano as Sieglinde, Bayreuth, 1908
Rose Pauly-Dressen (15 March 1894 – 14 December 1975); Hungarian dramatic soprano as Sieglinde, Frankfurt, ?
Martha Selle as Sieglinde, Breslau, ?
Florence Easton (25 October 1882 – 13 August 1955); English dramatic soprano as Sieglinde, Berlin, ?
Marie Thoma as Sieglinde, Schwerin, ?
Elvira Herz as Sieglinde, Berlin, ?
Adolf Gröbke ? (26.5.1872 -16.9.1949); German tenor as Siegmund, Rotterdam, ?
Lauritz Melchior (20 March 1890 – 18 March 1973); Danish-American heldentenor as Siegmund, Bayreuth, 1924, 1925 and 1931
Fiorenzo Tasso (1901 - 29. 3. 1976); French tenor as Siegmund, Milan, 1945
Carl Braun (2 June 1886 – 24 April 1960); German bass as Hunding, Bayreuth, 1925, 1927, 1928 and 1930
Lorenz Corvinus (20 July 1870 - 18 January 1952); German bass as Hunding, Bayreuth, 1908
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Gelesen: Derbyfieber! Die heißesten Fußball-Duelle
In heutigen Zeiten wird ja alles mögliche als Derby bezeichnet, aber das liegt daran, das in der Bundesliga nicht mehr so viele Vereine sind, die eine Historie haben. Vor allem keine regionale, vielleicht sogar lokale Geschichte, die sie in dem trennt, was sie verbindet. „Echte“ Derbys erzählen von Schlachten auf dem Fußballfeld und manchmal auch daneben. Von Stellvertreterkonflikten, die in echten Konflikten gründeten; weil hier Katholiken gegen Protestanten spielten, Oberklasse gegen Arbeiter oder linkes Flussufer gegen rechtes. Das meiste davon ist heute natürlich Folklore in einer solch globalisierten Welt, gerade im Fußball. Aber die Würze eines echten Derbys kommt aus der Geschichte.
Das Buch „Derbyfieber!“ von Ronny Müller, Andreas Baingo, Stephan Henke, Sebastian Stier und David Joram erzählt 26 dieser Geschichten. Die erste Hälfte des Buches besteht aus Derbys in Deutschland, die zweite weitet den Blick ins Internationale. Natürlich darf in dem Werk Dortmund gegen Schalke genausowenig fehlen wie Frankfurt gegen Offenbach oder Hamburger SV gegen St. Pauli. Selbstverständlich – und das habe ich geprüft, bevor ich die Rezension zusagte – ist auch das älteste deutsche Derby Nürnberg gegen Fürth vertreten. Das ist alles sehr interessant, wenn man sich ein wenig für Fußball interessiert. Bei manchen Feindschaften wissen ja oft schon die Fans gar nicht mehr, warum sie eigentlich existieren. Und an manche Begegnung kann ich mich sogar noch aktiv erinnern.
Überraschend lehrreich fand ich auch den internationalen Teil. Celtic Glasgow gegen Glasgow Rangers. Atletico Madrid gegen Real Madrid. Fenerbahçe Istanbul gegen Galatasaray Istanbul. Und so weiter. Es gibt dazu tolle – und manchmal auch bedrückende – Erzählungen, die einem die Augen öffnen. Zum Beispiel AC Mailand gegen Inter Mailand: Letztere haben sich gegründet, weil ihnen der AC (der damals noch anders hieß) zu nationalistisch war. „Internazionale sollte unterstreichen, dass alle Nationen und Kulturen willkommen seien.“
Fußballromantiker und -historiker können einiges aus diesem Werk ziehen. Das sind alles gut recherchierte und mit Anekdoten verzierte Geschichten über das, was Fußball ausmacht: Konkurrenz und Zusammenhalt. Denn auch wenn sich Derbygegner über wenig einigen können, eines sagen sie dann doch: Ein Derby ohne den Konkurrenten wäre auch langweilig.
Ronny Müller, Andreas Baingo, Stephan Henke, Sebastian Stier und David Joram: Derby Fieber – Die heißesten Fußballduelle. Meyer & Meyer Verlag, Aachen. 200 Seiten
(Original unter: https://1ppm.de/2022/11/derbyfieber/)
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Fabian, age 12
Fabian is twelve when he buys the mugs. He finds them at a small market shoved into the corner in a busy street close to his school. The stand that sells them has an assortment of them, but it’s two specific ones, side by side, that catch his eye.
“I’d like those,” he says, pointing at them, and only grins when the vendor gives him a slight confused look.
It’s his task to make breakfast the next morning – okay, not official, but since he’s always the first one out and about on weekdays, he often prefers to. He knows that his dad is probably awake. A tiny smile tugs at his mouth when he visualizes Dad’s deep, sarcastic sigh when he wakes up to Papa’s weight on his chest just like every day before then deciding to let him sleep for a bit longer.
The mugs are a deep red colour and sport pretty much the same design. Except, well. He twirls one of them in his hand, considering, recalling how Papa took him to the movies the other day when Dad was at a conference of some sort, and grins.
He turns on the coffee machine, hops on the counter; and then he waits.
“Fabian?”
It’s rare that Papa is up this early. Usually, he’s the last one to shuffle into the kitchen, yawning and scratching his stubble. Today he looks surprisingly put together considering it’s only seven in the morning, and proceeds to give Fabian a loopy smile.
“Morning Paps!” Fabi grins even wider. Then he picks up the freshly made coffee, handing it to him.
Papa frowns, then purses his lips. “Number One Dad?”
Fabi nods. Papa smiles.
They spend the next few minutes, before there’s a crash being heard from the hallway, seconds after Dad ambles into the kitchen.
“Morning, my dears, hope you slept well!”
He’s freshly showered, the hot steam still trailing after him. He smells clean and Fabi gets a whiff of it when he steps around him to pull Papa into their short obligatory good morning peck.
Then, he notices the mug.
“What’s this?”
Fabi grins again. “I have one for one too!” He hands it to him, and Dad frowns.
“Why does he get ‘Number One Dad’ and I just get ‘Dad?’”
Fabi shrugs – “aren’t you Dad?” – but of course, his dad immediately spots his shit-eating grin, wagging his finger at him.
“You cheeky little bugger! You only watch out young man.” He pinches Fabi’s cheeks, and Fabi laughs while Papa just stands there, contently drinking his coffee as he listens to them banter back and fourth.
The next week, Dad takes Fabi to the game he’s commenting. Officially, he shouldn’t, but he’s never been one to obey to rules all too much – not when it’s not harming anyone, at least. And after all, Bayern usually only come to Hamburg once a year.
Fabi’s excited – even if, as a St. Pauli player, still wrinkles his nose a bit every time he goes to the Volksparkstadion, it fills him with glee to see games in person, in a way that’s so different from when you watch them on TV or heck, even when you play yourself. In a way, being a fan is the most passionate you can be in football, and so, Dad hands him a VIP pass and ushers him inside.
Upon one of his colleagues asking, he’s just a kid whose parents he’d promised to take him – which isn’t wrong, per se, but it still stings every time when they pretend that they’re not related, that Fabi isn’t his son, his and Papa’s.
Fabi is frowning, but Dad just ruffles his hair. He points at the forwards skipping over the grass as they’re warming and smiles at him. It’s a forlorn smile, one that tells tales of nostalgia and fading memories, but it’s the proud look in his eyes that makes Fabi’s heart beat faster.
“One day, that will be you.”
The morning after, Dad gets to drink his coffee out of the #1 Dad mug.
From that day on, Fabi assigns the mugs each morning however he sees fitting in the moment.
It’s shortly before Fabian’s birthday that they get into an argument.
He’s promised to clean his room four days ago, and Papa finds him reading on his phone on the window bench in the living room instead. He’s holding the simple ‘Dad’ mug, a rarity, as most of the time, their close bond warranted the almost permanent fixture of the ‘#1 Dad’ one on his place on their table.
Papa starts berating him with that disappointed face of his as Fabi grows smaller and smaller, knowing that he has let him down. After five minutes or so Dad comes home and after quickly asserting the situation he concludes that Papa is being too strict.
Papa disagrees, and after half an hour, his parents are yelling at each other while Fabi stands with his back against the corner, too scared to push through to the door and go hide out in his room like he wants to.
It takes a lot to get Papa angry, but once he is, his voice is loud, booming, appearing in bouts and dying down again whereas Dad just interrupts him, ranting yelling in frustration. They don’t argue often, almost not at all, and never this violently. Experiencing it makes Fabi feel like he can hardly breathe anymore, especially considering – gosh, he sucks at his bottom lip, biting down on it until he can taste blood – that he’s the one who caused it.
Dad is shouting again, clutching the mug in his hand tighter and tighter ...
“AND JUST BECAUSE THE TWO OF YOU ARE SOO CLOSE DOESN’T MEAN PARENTING IS A ONE-MAN SHOW, YOU KNOW?!”
Dad looks like he regrets his words as soon as he said them.
The mug in Papa’s hand bursts with a shattering noise that resonates off the walls like ice cracking under pressure.
Then, abruptly, everything falls quiet.
The red shards look out of place on the light wooden floor, and Dad heaves a deep sigh, crouching down, picking them up carefully. To Fabi, he’s never aged, always looking just like he does in his memories aside from his slowly greying hair, but now, he looks like an old man.
“Fabian, please go get the dustpan for the smaller pieces.” He looks up, and the lines on his face are deep. Carefully, he opens the trashcan as Papa stands frozen.
“Babe, let me look at your hand.”
As Fabi shuffles out of the door, he can just see out of the corner of his eye how Dad turns the faucet on, carefully cleaning Papa’s bloody hand.
Later that day, they all sit on the couch, Papa in between Fabi and Dad, his hand wrapped like a Christmas present. Luckily, the cuts were only superficial, but it still had looked messy when Dad patched him up, so carefully and lovingly that Fabi is sure he wasn’t the only one wondering why they were even arguing in the first place.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, and Papa turns his head, his eyes deep and warm.
“Oh Krümel. You have nothing to be sorry for. I just overreacted. It’s alright, I promise.” His smile is tired, but his hand is warm on Fabi’s shoulder, and as he pulls him in, pressing a kiss on his head, he feels like he did as a little kid, when his papa’s pride was all he needed to feel content.
Dad clears his throat.
“I’m sorry, too. Had a really shitty day at work and no reason to take it out on you. I hate when I drive you to the breaking point, sweetheart. I know you’ve been stressed lately, I shouldn’t have provoked you even further.”
Fabi sniffles. “I love you both, you know? And I love you too dad, so much even, I know that ...”
Dad quiets him with half a smile and a raised hand.
“I know. You’re the best son either of us could wish for. And you and your papa,” – he smiles at the man in question – “have a very special bond. It was there long before you were born and I will never be able to compete with that. But –” he reaches around Papa, pushing a curl that has come loose from Fabi’s hair back up – “the beautiful thing is that I don’t need to. Because I love you two as much as a person physically can, and I know that you both love me, too.”
He ruffles Fabi’s hair. “But next time, when your father tells you to clean your room, you do it. Alright?”
Fabi nods. “Promise.”
And then he snuggles into Papa’s side, and everything is well.
It seems almost like fate when the market is back two days later. At first, Fabi doesn’t even want to go look at the stands, but then, something catches his eye. He doesn’t think that the vendor recognizes him, but she smiles at him warmly when he points at the mug he wants and wraps it up in old newspaper.
He sprints home, and luckily, both his parents are already back from work. He’s panting, but he makes the beeline for where Papa is sitting in his favourite chair as soon as he’s kicked off his shoes.
“Here!”
Papa gives him a curious look but then starts to carefully unwrap the bundle. His hand is still plastered with several bandaids, but the cuts healed well enough, even without having to see a doctor.
“Oh,” he breathes when he sees what Fabi brought him, a small, genuine smile gracing his lips. He leans forward to hug him, and Fabi beams.
When Dad enters the living room as well, incidentally sipping his coffee out of the red mug, and spots what Fabi gifted his partner, he chuckles.
From that day on, coffee in the Müller house is served in the red mug and a blue one that say ‘#1 Dad’ and ‘#1 Papa’ – because in the end, they’re both the best parents that Fabi can think of.
(He doesn’t cry when for his birthday, they serve him his hot chocolate in one that says ‘#1 Son’. He definitely doesn’t.)
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