Afterwards, not a single person went home. The Borussia Dortmund players stood in front of the Yellow Wall in silence, and the Borussia Dortmund fans acknowledged them in silence: a ritual that felt funereal, almost religious, in its wrought penitence. We, the players, beg forgiveness for taking a cheese grater to our faces for the last 90 minutes. We, the fans, forgive you for taking a cheese grater to your faces. And in your bloodied cheeks and gross bits of grated face we see, and honour, the measure of your sacrifice. A little more silence. The coach, Edin Terzic, was crying.
Meanwhile, about 60 miles down the A1, Bayern Munich were indulging in a more traditional title celebration. The customary, time-honoured kind. The Bayern kind. But this time, for Dortmund, there would be nobody else to blame. Not Pep Guardiola or Robert Lewandowski or Uli Hoeness. Not the big players who kept leaving for fresher pastures, nor the bigger clubs who lured them there, nor the financial inequities that enabled them.
