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Munich, mid-May, a third straight day of drizzle. A disarray has descended upon the headquarters of FC Bayern Munich. It's a palpable unwellness, a kind of chilly poison mist that's settled onto the buildings, the manicured greens, the players, the personnel. I'm not imagining or dramatizing here. Grown men, plural, are bumbling about the administrative offices, holding their heads with both hands and exclaiming, to no one and everyone, "You don't understand. There is pressure, very too much pressure!"
Upon my arrival, I was escorted to an office and instructed in no uncertain terms to stay there and speak to no one.