I didn’t think to ask where the camp is being held, but it becomes pretty evident exactly where we’re headed as Beck races along the road at his usual rapid pace. He makes the trip from the Scholenberg house to Kluvberg’s field in half the time it ordinarily takes the program van to trek the dozen blocks.

I may not have known our destination, but Beck did. Which means he got this car to drive for mere minutes. I try not to dwell on that as he parks in the lot reserved for players conveniently located next to the stadium. There’s a massive coach bus taking up one side of the lot, and the other side houses about a dozen cars.

A group of men lean against one of them, turning their attention to Beck as he climbs out of the driver’s seat. One of them calls out in German and laughs, making me think it was a comment about the car.

I come into sight, and attention shifts from the vehicle to me. There are four of them: Otto, two men I’ve never seen before, and the one I encountered when I got lost in the stadium my first day.

My personal GPS greets me first. “Hello. Stefan Herrmann.”

“Saylor. Nice to meet you,” I respond.

“Have we not already met?” he asks. I feel Beck’s eyes on me.

“I guess we have,” I reply. “Nice to see you again, then.”

He smiles, crinkling the corners of his gray eyes.

One man I’ve definitely never met spits something out in German. It’s a flurry of unfamiliar words. The only one I identify is “Kaiser.” It also sounds like there’s a mention of a banana and mulch, but I seriously doubt that’s correct, mostly based on Beck’s reaction. He barks something back that causes the man to shift his gaze to the ground sullenly.

I learn the one who spoke in German is named Ludwig, and the final member of the group is Fischer. He’s the oldest of the group, probably in his mid-thirties. Everyone grabs equipment from the back of the wagon, and then we start toward the entrance that leads directly onto the field.

“What did he say?” I ask Beck in a low voice.

“Something rude he won’t be repeating,” he replies in a clipped tone, striding ahead through the open gate.

Well, all right then. I let him pull ahead and try again on a more malleable target.

“Remember me?” I smile at Otto.

He smirks. “You are not easy to forget, Saylor. Do you have permission today?”

“Seems that way. Boring, huh?”

“I don’t think anyone would call you boring.”

That wasn’t what I meant, but I dive into the reason I instigated this conversation. Otto’s admiring tone is probably a better bet than any segue I could have come up with.