One month later...
Marco stepped off the bus at Sportschule Hennef just after noon. The facility sprawled before him—modern training pitches with perfectly manicured grass, a main complex with DFB logos emblazoned on every surface, and groups of teenagers in various national team tracksuits milling about with an air of controlled nervous energy.
Marco turned to see a dark-haired goalkeeper pulling a massive duffel bag from the bus storage compartment. The boy was tall, maybe six feet already, with the broad shoulders typical of keepers.
"First time at Hennef?"
"Yeah," Marco admitted, shouldering his own bag. "You?"
"Third camp. Ron Zieler, Hannover 96." He extended his free hand with an easy confidence.
"Goalkeeper, obviously."
"Marco Reus. Borussia Dortmund. Left wing."
Zieler's eyebrows rose slightly. "Dortmund? Heard you guys almost went bankrupt. Things better now?"
"Getting there. New coach, rebuilding." Marco didn't mention that historically, he knew exactly how things would turn out.
Yeah, historically Dortmund almost went bankrupt at this time. It wasn't sudden or unexpected.
The signs where always there. In 2003 they had to accept a loan from their rival Bayern to keep the club afloat. But now, in 2005, they went almost bankrupt again.
Zieler hoisted his bag. "Well, good luck this week. Competition's brutal, but you're here, so you must be decent."
As Zieler headed toward the entrance, Marco took a moment to absorb the scene. Thirty-some players were converging on the facility from different directions—buses from Munich, Hamburg, Berlin, Schalke. Each boy carried the same mixture of excitement and anxiety on his face.
This was the cream of German youth football. And somehow, he was part of it.
The main building's lobby was controlled chaos. Players crowded around three registration tables, assistant coaches in DFB tracksuits checking names off clipboards, room assignments being shouted over the general noise.
Marco joined the queue, scanning the visible roster sheet posted on the wall:
GERMANY U17 NATIONAL TEAM TRAINING CAMP
February 14-21, 2005
Sportschule Hennef
The names were organized by position. He found the forwards and wingers section:
Özil, M. (Schalke 04) - CAM/RW
Reus, M. (Dortmund) - LW/LM
Tyrała, S. (TBD) - MF
[Five other names he didn't recognize]
Eight attacking players competing for maybe three spots on the final eighteen-man roster. The math was brutal.
"Reus, Marco?" An assistant coach called from the middle table.
"Here."
The coach—a stocky man in his forties with a whistle around his neck—made a check mark. "Room 214, second floor. Your roommate is Celozzi. Training kit is in your room. First session is tomorrow morning, 8:30 sharp. Team meeting in the auditorium at 4 PM today. Don't be late."
"Yes, sir."
Marco grabbed his room key—a physical key on a wooden tag, not a card—and headed for the stairs.
Room 214 was standard dormitory fare: two single beds with thin mattresses, two small desks, two narrow wardrobes, and a shared bathroom barely large enough to turn around in. Functional, not comfortable.
His roommate was already there, unpacking with methodical precision. The boy was shorter than Marco, maybe five-foot-seven, with sharp Mediterranean features and dark hair.
"Stefano Celozzi," he said without looking up, continuing to fold shirts into his wardrobe. "Right back. You're Reus?"
"Yeah. Marco. Dortmund."
"I saw your name on the list downstairs." Stefano finally turned, giving Marco an appraising look. "Left wing, right? You're one of the eight attacking players."
"Yeah."
"There's six wingers and two attacking midfielders competing for maybe three spots in the final squad." Stefano's tone was matter-of-fact, not cruel. "Going to be brutal. At least as a fullback, I'm only competing with four others for two spots. Better odds."
Marco set his bag on the unclaimed bed.
"Optimistic way to look at it."
"Realistic way." Stefano returned to his unpacking. "This is my second camp. Last time, I didn't make the cut. Learned not to get my hopes up too early."
"But you're back, so they still see potential."
"Or they needed bodies to fill out the training squad." Stefano shrugged. "Either way, I'm here. That's what matters."
Marco liked him immediately. No false bravado, no insecurity masking as confidence. Just clear-eyed assessment of reality.
"Which bed do you want?" Stefano asked.
"Either's fine. You were here first."
"Already claimed the one by the window. Hope you don't snore."
"Can't promise anything."
A ghost of a smile crossed Stefano's face. "Fair enough."
At 4 PM sharp, all thirty-two players assembled in the facility's main auditorium. The room was designed for presentations—rows of padded seats facing a small stage, a projector screen on the wall, fluorescent lights that made everyone look slightly washed out.
Marco found a seat near the middle, Stefano sliding in beside him. Ron Zieler was two rows ahead.
And there, three seats from Kurz, was Mesut Özil.
Even sitting still, Özil had a presence. Slim build, intelligent eyes that seemed to track everything, an air of calm that suggested he'd been through this before and knew exactly what to expect. The other players around him kept glancing his way, the kind of deference you gave to someone whose reputation preceded them.
Marco's system interface flickered in his peripheral vision:
[Player Identified: Mesut Özil
Club: FC Schalke 04
Position: CAM/RW
Age: 16
Estimated Current Rating: 76/100 (Youth Level)
#Key Skills:
- Vision: 9.1/10
- Passing: 8.9/10
- Technical Ability: 9.0/10
- First Touch: 9.2/10
#Note: Highest-rated prospect in current camp. Primary competition for attacking positions.]
Marco dismissed the notification. He didn't need the system to tell him Özil was special. You could see it in how the boy carried himself, in how other players oriented around him like planets around a sun.
The side door opened. A middle-aged man in a DFB tracksuit entered, flanked by three assistant coaches. All four had the weathered look of former players, men who'd spent decades around football at various levels.
"Gentlemen," the head coach began, his voice carrying easily across the room. "Welcome to the German U17 national team training camp. I'm Coach Müller, head of this age group. These are my assistants: Coach Weber, Coach Schmidt, and our goalkeeper coach, Coach Lehmann."
Marco made mental notes. The names didn't match any historical records he could remember, but that was fine. The system would track relevant details.
Coach Müller clicked a remote. The projector screen lit up with a slide:
UEFA U17 CHAMPIONSHIP QUALIFIERS
MARCH 2005
GERMANY vs. [OPPONENTS TBD]
"You're here because you're among the best players your age in Germany," Müller continued. "Your clubs nominated you. We've been watching you for months. But being here doesn't guarantee anything."
He let that sink in, his gaze sweeping the room.
"We have qualifying matches in four weeks. This camp determines who makes that squad. We'll take eighteen players to the qualifiers. Eighteen out of thirty-two."
The math was simple and brutal. Fourteen players would be cut.
"This week, you'll train twice daily. Morning sessions focus on technical work and tactical implementation. Afternoon sessions are competitive—scrimmages, small-sided games, situations where we evaluate how you perform under pressure."
Another slide appeared: DAILY SCHEDULE
7:00 AM: Breakfast
8:30 AM: Training Session 1 (Technical/Tactical)
12:00 PM: Lunch
2:00 PM: Video Analysis/Classroom
4:00 PM: Training Session 2 (Competition/Scrimmage)
7:00 PM: Dinner
8:30 PM: Team Meeting/Free Time
10:00 PM: Lights Out
"We're evaluating everything," Müller said. "Skill, yes. But also attitude, tactical understanding, physical capacity, how you handle adversity, how you respond to coaching, and whether you're a good teammate. The Bundesliga is full of talented players who never made it because they couldn't work with others."
Coach Weber, one of the assistants, stepped forward. "Positions aren't set. If you're a winger who shows you can play striker, we'll consider it. If you're a midfielder who can defend, we want to see it. Versatility matters at international level."
"Questions?" Müller asked.
A tall defender with dark hair raised his hand. Marco recognized him from past highlight videos: Mats Hummels, Bayern Munich academy. Future Bundesliga star, future World Cup winner—though of course, no one here knew that yet.
"Coach, when will we know who made the squad?"
"Last day. February 21st. Individual meetings that evening." Müller's expression was neutral, professional. "Until then, assume nothing. Train like your spot depends on every session. Because it does."
Hummels nodded, sitting back.
Another hand went up—a defender Marco didn't recognize.
"What if we get injured during camp?"
"Medical staff is on site 24/7. Minor injuries, we'll manage. Serious injuries..." Müller paused. "We have to make decisions based on who's available for the qualifiers. This is why we emphasize injury prevention and smart training. Push yourselves, but don't be stupid."
No more questions.
"Good. Dinner is at 7 PM in the main dining hall. After that, you're free until lights out. Get to know your teammates. Tomorrow morning, we start for real. Dismissed."