The dining hall was massive—institutional but well-maintained, with long tables that could seat twelve each, a buffet line that smelled promisingly of schnitzel and potatoes, and large windows overlooking one of the training pitches.
Players naturally segregated by invisible hierarchies. The Bayern Munich contingent—Hummels and two others—claimed a central table. Schalke 04 players, including Özil, took another prime spot. Hamburg, Hertha Berlin, and other big-city academies filled in around them.
Smaller clubs gravitated toward the edges.
Marco grabbed a tray and loaded up: schnitzel, roasted potatoes, green beans, a bread roll, and a large glass of water. He scanned for a seat, weighing his options.
The smart move was probably to sit with big-academy players, network with the top prospects. But something about that felt forced, calculated in a way that might backfire if he came across as desperate.
Instead, he spotted Ron Zieler at a mixed table and headed over.
"Mind if I sit?"
Zieler looked up from his plate, recognized Marco, and shrugged. "Feel free."
The table was an interesting mix:
Ron Zieler (GK, Hannover 96) - confident, already eaten half his meal
Jérôme Boateng (DF, Hertha Berlin) - quiet, methodically cutting his schnitzel
Kevin Pezzoni (DF, smaller academy) - nervous energy, leg bouncing under the table
Two others Marco didn't recognize—a midfielder and a forward from clubs he'd have to ask about
"So," Zieler said, pointing his fork at Marco, "Dortmund. How's the academy there? We don't play you guys often in youth tournaments."
"Solid. Good coaching, decent facilities." Marco kept his answer neutral. "Not Bayern or Schalke level, but we develop players."
"Heard your first team almost went bankrupt," one of the unknowns said. Not hostile, just curious.
"Yeah, it happened a couple years ago. Close call. But we've stabilized." Marco took a bite of schnitzel—actually pretty good.
Zieler leaned back, appraising Marco. "Left wing, right? Competing with Kurz and, uh... the Schalke kid. Özil."
All eyes flicked briefly toward the Schalke table, where Mesut Özil sat in conversation with three other players, his body language relaxed, confident without being arrogant.
"Yeah," Marco admitted. "Among others."
"Özil's the favorite," Pezzoni said quietly. "Everyone knows it. He's been in the youth.national team setup for two years. Scored seven goals in the last tournament."
"So I'll have to be better than him." Marco said it simply, as fact rather than bravado.
The table went quiet for a moment.
Then Zieler laughed. "Balls on this kid. I respect it." He raised his water glass. "To being better than the favorites."
Marco clinked glasses with him. "To making the squad."
"To not embarrassing ourselves," Boateng added dryly, which got a round of chuckles.
The conversation shifted to safer topics—comparing academy training methods, complaining about school requirements, discussing which Bundesliga teams were fun to watch.
Marco participated but kept part of his attention on the room's dynamics.
At the Schalke table, Özil was holding court, three other players leaning in to catch his words. Not dominating the conversation, Marco noticed, but anchoring it. The difference was subtle but important.
And at the Bayern table, Mats Hummels sat with perfect posture, eating precisely, occasionally offering quiet comments that made his tablemates nod in agreement. Future captain material, even at sixteen.
These were the players Marco would be measured against. Not just in skill, but in presence, in how they carried themselves, in whether they looked like they belonged at this level.
* * * * * *
Back in Room 214, Stefano was at his desk doing homework. Actual schoolwork—a math textbook open, equations being solved in neat handwriting.
"You brought homework to national team camp?" Marco asked, dropping his bag on his bed.
"Teacher said I'd fail if I didn't submit it Monday." Stefano didn't look up. "Not everyone can afford to just play football. I need my diploma as backup."
The comment wasn't bitter, just practical. Marco respected that.
"Fair point."
He pulled out his training log—the folder Coach Werner had given him before departure—and opened it on his own desk. Page after page of data from the past four months: fitness test results, technical skill assessments, tactical quiz scores, match performance ratings.
The progression was undeniable. Every metric had improved, some dramatically.
His system interface overlaid additional information:
[Current Status at Camp:
Your Rating: 69.9/100
Average Camp Rating: 68.3/100
Top 10% Threshold: 73.0/100
#Relative Standing:
- Above Average (Top 40%)
- Need Strong Performance to Crack Top 25%
Tactical Analysis - German U17 System:
- Formation: 4-2-3-1
- Left Wing Role: Width + Crossing Primary, Cut Inside Secondary
- Defensive Requirements: HIGH (Track back, press triggers)
- Physical Demands: Stamina Critical
Your Strengths vs. System Requirements:
✓ Vision/Passing: Excellent
✓ Technical Ability: Excellent
✓ Stamina: Good
✗ Crossing: Adequate (Need to showcase)
✗ Defensive Work Rate: Need to demonstrate
#Adaptation Strategy:
- Emphasize versatility in training
- Show willingness to do defensive work
- Balance cut-inside preference with traditional wing play
- Demonstrate coachability]
Marco made mental notes. The German youth system at this time favored traditional wingers—players who hugged the touchline, delivered crosses, tracked back to help fullbacks. His natural inclination to cut inside and create centrally was more modern, the kind of inverted winger play that would become standard in five or ten years.
But he couldn't be ahead of his time here. He had to show he could do what the coaches wanted, even if it wasn't his preferred style.
Versatility. That was the key word Coach Weber had used. Show them you can adapt.
"Hey, Stefano?"
"Yeah?" The defender still didn't look up from his math.
"In your academy, how do they teach wide players? Cross more or cut inside?"
Stefano's pencil paused. "Depends on the coach. Traditional coaches want wingers who stay wide and cross. Modern coaches want inverted wingers who cut onto their strong foot. Why?"
"Just wondering what they'll expect here. National team level."
"Probably both." Stefano finally looked up, his expression thoughtful. "National team coaches love versatile players. Players who can adapt to different systems, different opponents. If you can only do one thing, even if you do it brilliantly, that's a risk. But if you can do three things pretty well..." He shrugged. "Safer pick."
"Makes sense.Are you worried about making the squad?"
Marco considered lying, defaulting to false confidence. But Stefano had been honest about his own concerns earlier. So he decided to be honest too.
"A little. The competition's tough."
"It is. But we're here, right?" Stefano turned back to his homework. "That already puts us ahead of thousands of players who didn't get invited. Might as well give it everything and see what happens."
"Practical advice."
"Only kind worth giving."
Marco returned to his training log, but his mind was already racing ahead to tomorrow's first session. Technical and tactical work in the morning. Competitive scrimmages in the afternoon. Seven days to prove he belonged among Germany's best.
Outside the window, night had fallen over Hennef. Across the facility, in thirty-one other rooms, the same thoughts were likely churning through young minds. The same hopes, the same fears, the same desperation to prove themselves worthy.
Marco closed his training log and lay back on his bed, staring at the ceiling.
Tomorrow, it began.
* * * * * *
The alarm went off at 6:30 AM, dragging Marco from a dreamless sleep. Across the room, Stefano was already up, methodically making his bed with military precision.
"Morning," Marco mumbled, swinging his legs out of bed.
"Coffee's in the dining hall. You'll need it." Stefano pulled on his training kit—the standard DFB tracksuit with Germany's black, red, and gold colors. "First morning session is always brutal. They want to see who's in shape and who's been slacking."
Marco grabbed his own kit from the wardrobe. The material was nicer than Dortmund's training gear, the crest heavier, more official. Wearing it felt significant, like crossing an invisible threshold from club player to national team prospect.
They headed down to breakfast together, joining a stream of bleary-eyed teenagers shuffling toward the dining hall. The smell of coffee and fresh bread grew stronger with each step.