The greatest myth Germany ever sold the world was its own efficiency. Virtually everything here closes on a Sunday. Most small shops only accept cash. Companies still communicate by fax. Even the simplest administrative tasks drown in the weight of their own absurd bureaucracy. When I was finally granted German residency – a process that took almost a year, required four appointments with various government agencies and the services of a notary – I was informed, by post, that I could access my permit online by downloading an app. The instructions for downloading the app arrived several weeks later, also by post. The app did not work.
So it was with a certain grim recognition that I noted the recent comments of the Euro 2024 organisers, publicly criticising the bureaucratic inefficiencies of the host nation.
“If we have specific questions, Berlin refers us to the federal states,” said Uefa’s Mex Schär, the tournament’s managing director. “If we ask there, we are referred to the federal government. We need clear guidelines and commitment.” His co-managing director, Markus Stenger, added: “We have an incredible opportunity. You can’t feel this enthusiasm politically.”
On the face of things, Euro 2024 this summer feels like an easy sell. The first European Championship in a unified Germany. A nation with football hooked to its veins, with a track record of hosting big events, with pretty much all the stadiums and infrastructure already built. And set against the iniquities of Russia 2018, Plagueland 2021, Qatar 2022 and USA/Canada/Mexico 2026, perhaps Germany 2024 can even serve as a kind of palate cleanser, the antidote to a decade of weird, stitched-together tournaments.
That’s the theory, anyway. And yet, off the pitch as on it, Germany has developed something of a habit of missing open goals. With 100 days to go, there is still very little visible footprint of this summer’s tournament beyond the football media and the inevitable giant replica trophies installed on the concourses of central train stations. The country’s railways have been plagued by strikes, delays and a chronic lack of investment. There have been reports that Dutch fans have so little faith in the transport network that about 100,000 of them are planning to arrive by bike.
Naturally the interest, the branding and the logistics will all be ramped up in the coming months. But for all the solid work being done by the 10 host cities, for all the enthusiasm evident in the phenomenal early demand for tickets – 2.3 million people applied for the final alone – there remains a distinct lack of institutional will behind the tournament, little coherent messaging, no clear strategy beyond a vague confidence that everything will be fine. Or as Stenger put it: “The federal government has not yet developed a noticeable vision for the tournament.”
And Germany really does need a big summer here. When the tournament director, Philipp Lahm, described Euro 2024 as “a turning point for Europe, for society, for all of us”, he was investing a frankly colossal degree of expectation in what is basically four-and-a-bit weeks of international football. “This tournament is a resurgence of the European idea, in order to better withstand crises and conflicts in the future,” Lahm wrote in an article for Kicker in October. “Europe and its values – such as democracy and freedom, diversity and tolerance, integration and inclusion – should be strengthened and celebrated.”
What Lahm is audaciously arguing for here is football as a kind of universal binding force against populism and division, not just for Germany but for the continent as a whole. And if it reads a little fanciful and idealistic, then perhaps Lahm is influenced by his own memories of the 2006 World Cup, in which the unfancied hosts surged to the semi-finals on a wave of goodwill, glorious weather and reclaimed patriotism. They call it the Sommermärchen, the “summer fairytale”, and even now it holds a rare and privileged place in German cultural memory.
“It was just one big party,” says Thomas Hitzlsperger, a member of the squad and now a well-known pundit. “The weather was great, everyone was taking to their families at home, and every day was just huge, huge joy.”
The 2006 World Cup seemed to crystallise a moment in German history, a point in time when they just had everything sussed out. A nation comfortable in its own skin and own symbols, liberal and tolerant, with a booming economy and a vibrant cultural scene, superfast trains and state‑of‑the‑art football stadiums, with Lahm at right-back and Lukas Podolski on the wing. It was largely myth, of course, the kind of story nations like to tell themselves in the fug of euphoria, but still it holds its grip. “Sommermärchen 2.0, that’s the ideal,” announced Julian Nagelsmann upon taking over as national team coach in September. “I will do everything to ensure it happens again.”
But the Germany of 2024 is a very different country: angrier, more fractured, less sure of its place in the world. The war in Ukraine exposed its overreliance on cheap Russian energy; the war in Gaza has exposed deep societal divisions over the country’s longstanding and largely instinctive support for Israel. Recent polls have established the far-right AfD as the country’s second-largest political party, in turn inspiring anti-fascist protests in cities across Germany.
Into this pressure cooker steps Nagelsmann, a short-term solution as head coach after three consecutive tournament failures and the sacking of Hansi Flick in the autumn. He has inherited a deeply uneven team, short of defenders and strikers, increasingly adrift from the public they represent, with players at the last World Cup even openly questioning the support they were getting back home.
“In recent decades, Germany always found a way to win tournaments,” Hitzlsperger says. “Lately, they always found a way to lose. They don’t always play that badly, but they just find a way. We have some brilliant individuals, but defensively we’re still vulnerable, even in possession. And up front, we don’t have the top quality that other teams have. In Qatar, the team sometimes thought that people back home wanted them to lose, which is obviously not right. But it adds to the pressure going into a home tournament.”
For once, Germany go into a home tournament fighting the tide of history. They have gone behind in each of their past 11 games at major tournaments. They haven’t won a knockout game since 2016. And their draw here is tough: by world ranking, the second-hardest of all the seeded nations. Hungary have not lost to Germany in a competitive game since 1954. Switzerland haven’t lost in any game since 2008. Both have a solid core of players with Bundesliga experience. Scotland are rapidly improving and will relish the opportunity to spring a shock on opening night. In order to triumph, Germany will need to harness the qualities that have so deserted them of late: unity, purpose, resolve. And yes, efficiency.
But the prize is more than worth the trouble. Football doesn’t make the trains run on time, it doesn’t fix a broken public sector, it doesn’t heal political divides for more than a fleeting moment. But what it does, it does spectacularly well.
“Life’s become more difficult,” Hitzlsperger says. “We had war, we had Covid, a lot of negative headlines. People really want a break. And football is able to do that. I don’t think there’ll be long-lasting change. But for those four weeks, people can have a really good time.
