8
There are many things I can’t do. But when I can do something, then it’s high jump. I mean, I’m not an Olympics athlete or something, but I’m unbeatable in high jump and long jump. Even though I’m one of the shortest, but I can jump as high as Olaf, who is one meter ninety tall. I set a record for our junior high earlier this year, and I was very proud. We were on the high jump field, and the girls were sitting over there on the grass, and Mrs. Beilcke was giving them a lecture. That’s their PE class: Mrs. Beilcke gives them a literal lecture and they sit there scratching their ankles. They also don’t run all over the field like Wolkow.
Wolkow is our PE teacher, and he also likes to give lectures. Every PE teacher that I’ve seen likes to spit out an unbelievable amount of words. With Wolkow, Mondays are for bundesliga, Tuesdays mainly also bundesliga, Wednesdays champion’s league and Fridays come the joyful anticipations of bundesliga and the analytics. In summer, Wolkow can also give out some opinions about the Tour de France, but it’s mostly about doping and quickly back to more important topics, why you don’t dope in football. Because it doesn’t have any use. That’s Wolkow’s true thoughts. And that hasn’t interested anyone so far, but the problem is: Wolkow only talks when we are jogging on the field. He’s in super conditions, he’s definitely seventy, but is immer briskly ahead and keeps chattering and chattering. And then he always says: “Men!” And he says nothing for the next ten meters and then: “Dortmund.” Ten meters. “Can’t handle it.” Ten meters. “Home record. Am I right?” Twenty meters. “And van Gaal, the old fox! It’s no walk.” Param, param. “Any thoughts?” A hundred meters. And obviously no one’s gonna say anything, because we’ve already ran twenty kilometers, and only Hans, the Nazi, the team captain, the one who’s behind us all sweaty and out of breath, sometimes shouts: “Ha-ho-he! Hertha BSC!” And then it’s too much for Wolkow himself, Wolkow the Babbler, and he skipped an extra turn so taht Hans can catch up, and then he raises his index finger and shouts with his trembling voice: “Simunic! Joe Simunic!”
And only that can get one excited about high jump. Maybe we only did high jump on that day, because Wolkow had an extremely sore throat and couldn’t jog and babble at the same time, but only jog. When Wolkow had a middle level sore throat, he babbles a bit less. When he’s dead, class is cancelled. But when he comes down with a bad sore throat, he just jogs quietly around the field.
He records our jumps in his little black notebook during high jump and always compares them with the numbers from the last year and says that we’re five centimeters higher before. The girls sat near the field, just like I’ve said, and listened to Mrs. Beilcke. But actually they obviously didn’t listen to her, but they’re looking at us.
Tatjana was at the back with her best friend Natalie. They were whispering. And I sat as if I were on burning coal. I seriously wanted to come up before Mrs. Beilcke finished her babbling. Wolkow also started the competition just on time: First one meter twenty, whoever didn’t pass was out. Then five centimeters higher each time. Only Heckel got eliminated on one twenty. Heckel has a fat tummy, he’s already had that since year five, and to match it, two sticks for legs. It’s not really a surprise that he couldn’t jump a single centimeter off the ground. He isn’t especially good in any subjects, but he sucks especially in PE. He’s also dyslexic, that means his spelling errors in German essays don’t count. So he can make as many mistakes as he wants. Only the contents and the style counts, because it’s a disease and he can’t do anything about it. But then I have a question, what can he do about his stick legs? His father is a bus driver and looks just like him: A ton with two sticks. It’s clear that Heckel is also a high jump dyslexic, and how high he reached shouldn’t count, still only the content. But it’s not a known disease, so he’s still horrible at PE, and all girls giggled when the fat lump threw himself forward and landed in the face.
By one forty, the field was starting to clear up. By one fifty, there were only Kevin and Patrick, Andre with a good amount of effort, and obviously me. Olaf was sick. When Andre threw himself over the bar, girls starting cheering, and Mrs. Beilcke looked serious. When it came to one fifty-five, Natalie screamed: “You’re gonna make it, Andre!” A very stupid encouragement, because he’s definitely not gonna make it. On the other hand, he flew under the bar, which often happens in high jump when you tilt too much to the front. He rolled under and tried to save it with a joke. But it was too old. No one laughed. Next up, they cheered Kevin on. Kevin the math genius. But he also didn’t pass one sixty. And then there was only me. Wolkow put a sixty-five on, and I already knew it during the sprinting, it was my day. It was the day of Maik Klingenberg. I had this feeling of triumph when I was jumping. But I didn’t jump, I sailed over the bar like a plane, I floated in the air, I hovered. Maik Klingenberg, the athlete. I think, if I could give myself a nickname, it would be aerofloat. Or air Klingenberg. But unfortunately you’re not allowed to give yourself nicknames. As my back sank into the soft mat, I heard a few handclaps on the boys’ side. And complete silence on the girls’. When I bounced up again, I first looked at Tatjana, and Tatjana was looking at Mrs. Beilcke. Natalie also. They didn’t see my jump wahtsoever. It didn’t interest them, what the psycho sleeping pill was doing. Aerofloat my ass.
It really made the day for me, even though I wasn’t that interested in it. Like high jumping could interest me for a milisecond! But if Andre came over a one sixty-five or even tried one, the girls were gonna run around the field waving pom-poms. And they didn’t spare a single look at me. I didn’t interest anyone. If I managed to interest anything, then the question: Why weren’t anybody looking at air Klingenberg acing the school record, and why did everybody look at a flour bag roll under the bar? That was a shit of a school, and that was a shit of a girl, and there were no other. I always thought that, until I knew Tschick. And then something changed. And I’m gonna tell you about it right now.