My World Cup rescue mission

A man walks into a bar. Well, a man hobbles into a bar on crutches. The bar is in Dortmund, near the train station. And the man is Swedish. I know this because he’s wearing a bright yellow Sweden shirt and a Viking helmet.

It’s been a day of bright yellow Sweden shirts and Viking helmets in Dortmund, with Sweden taking on Trinidad & Tobago in their opening World Cup group fixture. The match ends goalless. And I’ve just filed my match report for Scotland On Sunday. Soon I’ll be catching a night-train to Munich. Meantime I’m having a beer. The World Cup’s been great so far. Germany is doing a fantastic job of hosting it.

The man in the Viking helmet sits next to me and lays down his crutches. He points at his leg in plaster and starts talking. I nod sympathetically, pretending to understand him. I don’t speak Swedish. Then I realise he’s speaking English. He’s just hard to understand. He’s about as incomprehensible as Bork, the Swedish chef off The Muppets.

I try to have a conversation with him. Poor result for Sweden, I say. He wants to know the score. Wasn’t he at the game? Yes, he was at the game. Until he went for a drink at half-time and toppled down a concrete staircase. And was rushed to hospital and had his leg put in plaster. And was given lots of pain relief. Now he’s wired to the moon. It’s the medication that’s making him sound like the Swedish chef off The Muppets. That and the fact he’s Swedish.

His friends are unaware of his accident. All they know is that he went for a drink at half-time and didn’t come back. He needs to return to them, to their hotel in a town 60 miles away. It’s getting close to midnight.

I realise I have to help this man. I can’t have Bork stranded in Dortmund with a broken leg and a woozy head.

‘Wait here,’ I say. I rush over to the train station and scan the giant electronic board for the name of the town. There it is. The last train leaves in 15 minutes. I run back to the bar to get Bork. ‘Hey!’ he says, welcoming me like an old friend. ‘Can I buy you a drink?’

‘There’s no time for that, Bork,’ I say. ‘You’re train’s leaving in ten minutes. We have to go.’ I help him to his feet, hand him his crutches and lead him to the train station. We’re never going to make it. He still needs a ticket. I start pumping coins into a machine, frantically searching for the right ticket and destination. I find it and press the button. I give Bork his ticket.

‘Come on,’ I say. Two minutes until his train leaves. I glance up at the board for the platform number. I pile Bork and his crutches onto an escalator. We get to the top and there is his train, about to leave.  I load Bork onto the train with his crutches. The door closes. Bork is looking at me through the window as the train moves off. He is smiling and waving. He’s going to get home tonight. Provided he remembers to get off.

Helping out Bork is my abiding memory of the last World Cup. Well, that and sitting among the Italian players’ wives at a game in Hamburg.

Sweden didn’t qualify for the World Cup this time round. Bork won’t be in South Africa. And I won’t be there to help him.