THE GERMAN TEAM ARRIVED several days prior to the game and put up at a small hotel on the Seine nearly six miles from Rouen. Each morning before practice they went for a five-mile walk across country.
“Stamina, that’s what football is all about,” the baron said to them. “The team that is the freshest in the last five minutes usually wins. We took the league because we outlasted better teams. Look at me, I’m over forty, but I believe I could outlast some of you young chaps because I’ve still got my legs. You fellows with your Porsches and Karmann Ghias will lose the use of your legs someday.”
They realized he was right. Had they not seen him run in a practice match when occasionally he came forward on the field to coach the offense?
The afternoon before the day of the game he took each man out alone for a stroll in the countryside, discussing the tactics to be used, the makeup of the French team, how they should handle their adversaries, and especially what to do about Varin.
“We should allow Varin and the French to do the running. Let them play their game and hold them. Nothing is more discouraging than to play your best and not score. Then every few minutes you boys turn it on. When the opportunity arises, go. You can score goals, Sepp. Turn it on, suddenly, unexpectedly. These boys are dangerous here in Rouen before their own crowd, but they can be beaten.”
Never did he mention his notoriety as the Butcher of Nogent-Plage, which would make the match so bitterly fought. He did not need to. His teammates were as aware of it as he was.
Early that evening, before dinner, a press conference was arranged in the dining room of the hotel. Television cameras pointed directly at the baron. On a table before him a dozen microphones had been placed to pick up his words. The journalists and commentators kept after him from every corner of the room, talking in four or five languages, some needling, others more understanding and less insistent. He replied evenly to each man, pausing a few seconds to think before responding, never permitting himself to be ruffled by the most hostile remarks. Even when a blond Dane asked whether he was pleased to be back in France again.
Those queries he did not care to answer he turned aside tactfully, discussing only matters pertinent to the game. His adroitness at handling this rather unfriendly group of newsmen made you appreciate his qualities. You could understand why he had been chosen to assume responsibility and lead his team into action. How, he was asked, would Germany defend against the marvelous French offense, which nobody to date had stopped?
He thought a moment and then replied slowly, “France is a nation of individualists. You would expect the French players to be a great team, of course they are. To win in their league they had to be. I saw them play last year at Dusseldorf—they are magnificent attackers, finely trained, skillful, never letting up. But, nevertheless, though they are a team of champions, they are also and primarily a team of individualists. By that I mean they sometimes ask a man to do it on his own. Now our tactics are somewhat different.”
As he spoke, the room grew unnaturally quiet. Here was a football captain talking frankly, freely, and yet modestly about his opponents and the tactics he would use against them the following afternoon.
His cool confidence was contagious. Reporters bent forward to catch every word. All present knew of whom he was thinking: Jean-Paul Varin, the greatest centre forward ever produced in France.
Then a small dark Italian spoke. His German was excellent, his tone unpleasant. “Do you fear Varin?”
A collective sigh, a sort of “aaahhh” rose. One reporter stopped midway in the act of lighting a cigarette. Another, who had stood up to rush away and file copy to meet an early deadline, quietly sat down again.
Surely this was too much. This was pushing him too far. This was unfair. The tall figure behind the table did not stir. But watching closely, you could see his right hand tighten around the stem of a microphone.
The newsmen waited for his answer. Would he explode in anger? Would he suggest that he had been tried, convicted, and imprisoned by the French for a crime he had not committed. Or would he ignore the question entirely?
For endless seconds he stood motionless. Then his mouth opened and in flawless Italian he replied. “We Germans greatly respect the French team and all their players. We do not fear anyone.”