Wolfgang-Felix
Magath wasn’t always the sadistic, cheese-toting crank he’s now portrayed as
being. A long time ago, before Fulham, Hangeland and the Quarkwickel, he was a
footballer.
And a very good one
at that: for
parts of the seventies and eighties, he was considered Germany’s finest
playmaker, a cerebral presence at the heart of one of Europe’s best domestic
sides. This was Hamburg-era Magath: subtle, creative and intelligent, a man the
great Ernst Happel labelled “a monastery student”.
Yet this unlikely
image of Bruder Felix, a benign and thoughtful football monk, flies
in the face of the current perception of him as some sort of autocratic OAP
with a hatred for lethargy. For when it comes to Magath, a gloomy present masks
an illuminated past.
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