Dirk Nowitzki sat at the desk in his study, his forehead leaving grease marks on the fine teak. This was his thinking position, and he had a lot to think about at the moment. He heard a slight rapping on the closed door.
“Eintreten!”
It was his butler, Franz. “H-herr Nowitzki” he began, stuttering slightly. “Your fan mail for today has arrived.” In his hands was a single letter. Dirk raised his head, saw this, and became enraged.
“Was ist das?” He got up from the desk and strode towards his friend and confidant, gesticulating wildly. “Is that it? Only one letter? Where are the rest, Franz? Tell me where you are hiding the remaining correspondence, bitte!” Dirk was standing right next to him now, staring down in anger.
“That is all, mein Herr. Only one letter, from Ulrike in Berlin, as usual.”
Just as quickly as the anger had come, it passed. Dirk sulked back to his desk and resumed his thinking position. “Tell me, Franz,” Dirk questioned, his voice muffled by the wood, “what happened to the many bags of fan mail I used to receive daily?”
Franz hesitated. “I th-think they have found a new source of nationalistic pride, mein Herr. I have heard rumors of a new German player, named D-dennis Schröder. They say he is quite good, young and exciting. Quatsch, Ich sehe.”
“Quatsch, indeed, Franz. Don’t they know that I’m still the real deal, the greatest and most legendary of all German basketball players? I may not be what I once was, but that is no reason to abandon me for the latest trend.”
“I agree, ja, very much. It is ridiculous. Shall I burn this l-letter? Perhaps we don’t want to be reminded of this embarrassment, and you have read enough of Ulrike’s drivel to last a Lebensdauer”
Dirk sighed. “Leave it here on my desk, I will get to it if I can ever find the time.” he responded, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. “And turn out the lights when you leave. Danke, Franz”. He closed his eyes, not noticing if his orders were carried out.
“Dennis Schröder” he thought to himself. “Das ist nicht wunderbar.”