Football singularity

Chapter 793: Chapter 793 Medicals & Friendly

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~~~

"Alright, gentlemen, let’s get this show on the road," Andreas Schlumberger announced, clipboard in hand as he stood at the entrance to the medical wing. Rakim, Wirtz, and Tah had been joined by two other players who’d arrived late: Matthias Ginter from Gladbach and Kevin Volland, who’d flown in from Monaco last night.

"Full physical assessment today," Andreas continued, leading them down a corridor lined with examination rooms. "Blood work, cardiovascular testing, musculoskeletal screening, the works."

"Rakim, you’re with us," A young man somewhere between his late twenties and early thirties called out. "I’m Jonas Siler, a trainer of the performance team, and this is Dr Myer. He’s here to torture you today."

"Boink—Ignore this oaf. I’m here to make sure you’re healthy without any lingering threats from the taxing season you just finished," Dr Meyer, an older gentleman in his late forties, commented, slapping Jonas over the back of the head with his clipboard. "We’ll be starting with a light warm-up, testing your range of motion before moving on to cardio."

Rakim followed them into a spacious examination room that looked more like a high-tech laboratory than a doctor’s office. One wall was entirely covered with screens displaying various biometric readouts, while the other had a treadmill, examination bed, and enough medical equipment to stock a small hospital.

"Strip down to your compression shorts," Dr Meyer instructed, pulling on latex gloves. "We’ll start with a basic physical examination, then move to the fun stuff."

Rakim complied, folding his training gear neatly on a chair. Jonas busied himself with preparing equipment while Dr Meyer began the examination—checking joints, testing reflexes, palpating muscles for any signs of injury or tension.

"Any pain anywhere?" Dr Meyer asked, moving Rakim’s right shoulder through its full range of motion.

"Nothing significant, just some general fatigue from the season."

"Understatement of the year," Jonas muttered from his laptop. "You played what, sixty-plus matches this season?"

"Something like that."

"And scored sixty-seven goals," Jonas added, pulling up Rakim’s statistics on one of the monitors. "Your workload data from Leverkusen shows you averaged over eleven kilometres per match in the Champions League knockout stages. That’s ridiculous for an attacker."

Dr Meyer frowned slightly. "Any muscle tightness? Hamstrings, hip flexors, groin?"

"Hamstrings are a bit tight," Rakim admitted. "But nothing a good massage won’t fix."

"We’ll book you in with the physio team this afternoon," Dr Meyer noted on his tablet. "Can’t have you pulling something in the middle of the tournament. Now, let’s check your cardiovascular baseline."

~~~

The next hour was a blur of tests, blood was drawn, heart rate monitored, lung capacity measured via a spirometry test that had Rakim blowing into a tube until he thought his lungs would collapse. Then came the VO2 max test on the treadmill, where Jonas gradually increased the speed and incline while Dr Meyer monitored his oxygen consumption.

"Jesus Christ," Jonas muttered, watching the numbers climb. "Your VO2 max is 73 ml/kg/min. That’s monstrous endurance athlete territory. Most footballers sit around 60-65."

Dr Meyer nodded, making notes. "Explains the engine. You don’t see many attackers maintaining that intensity for ninety minutes, let alone extra time in finals."

Rakim stepped off the treadmill, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his torso. "Is that good or...?"

"Good?" Jonas laughed. "Mate, that’s borderline freakish. Combine that with your sprint speed data—10.65 meters per second peak velocity this season—, you, my friend, are what we call a prized race horse or a Formula One car."

"A Formula One car that needs proper maintenance," Dr Meyer interjected, handing Rakim a towel. "Which brings us to body composition analysis. Step over here."

The next station was a DEXA scanner, which measured bone density, muscle mass, and body fat percentage with uncomfortable precision. Rakim lay still on the scanning bed while the machine hummed and beeped, creating a detailed 3D map of his body composition.

"Body fat at 7.2%," Jonas read from the screen. "Muscle mass 82.3 kilograms. Bone density is excellent. You’re a machine, mate."

"You need to eat more," Dr Meyer said, frowning at the screen. "Your weight’s dropped three kilograms since March, according to the file sent by your club. Understandable, given the fixture congestion, but we need to get some mass back on you during the tournament. Can’t have you running on fumes."

"I won’t say no to good food," Rakim said, sitting up. "Are we done?"

"Almost. One more thing." Jonas wheeled over what looked like a large tablet connected to a force plate. "We need baseline agility and reaction time measurements. Step on the plate."

The next fifteen minutes involved a series of quick-fire drills—lateral shuffles, forward sprints, backward pedals, direction changes—all while Jonas recorded data on acceleration, deceleration, and change-of-direction efficiency. Laser cameras recorded his movements in the designated area, noting every fibre twitch of his muscles. Putting in more effort, he held his breath, pushing harder, forcing his muscles to pump.

"Right and left foot equally dominant," Jonas narrated, typing rapidly. "Ten-meter sprint: 1.72 seconds. Twenty-meter: 2.85 seconds. Forty-meter: 4.54 seconds. These numbers would make Olympic sprinters jealous."

"Not really," Rakim said, pulling his training gear back on. "Usain Bolt ran 100 meters in 9.58 seconds."

"Yeah, but he wasn’t dribbling a football, grooving, sliding and dodging defenders," Jonas shot back with a grin. "Context matters."

Dr Meyer handed Rakim a printout of his results. "Everything looks good. No red flags, no injury concerns. Just make sure you’re eating enough—I’ve noted that for the nutritionist. You’re cleared for full training tomorrow."

"Thanks," Rakim said, folding the paper and tucking it into his pocket.

"Oh, and Rex?" Dr Meyer called as Rakim reached the door. "Try to take it easy, your body seems fine on the surface, but it’s been under tension for a long time. It needs time to adjust. I would hate to have you suffer an avoidable injury due to overwork."

Rakim grinned. "Will do, Doc."

~~~

[Herzogenaurach Town Center | 13:15 CET]

The bike tour was, admittedly, more pleasant than expected. Andreas led the group of seven—Rakim, Wirtz, Tah, Volland, Ginter, Neuer, who’d recovered from his minor knock, and backup keeper Bernd Leno—through the picturesque streets of Herzogenaurach on high-end Trek bikes provided by the DFB.

The town was quintessentially Bavarian: cobblestone streets, half-timbered houses with flower boxes overflowing with geraniums, church spires rising against blue sky. Locals waved as the group cycled past, some calling out encouragement, others simply staring in recognition.

"Welcome to the birthplace of sports apparel," Andreas narrated as they pedalled through the town centre. "Herzogenaurach—where Adidas and Puma were born from a family feud between the Dassler brothers."

"Wild that two global brands came from one small town," Leno commented, cycling beside Neuer.

"Not that wild when you consider Germans’ love for sports," Neuer said with a slight smile. "We don’t do things halfway."

They cycled past the Adidas headquarters, a massive glass-and-steel complex that looked more like a tech campus than a sports company. They continued toward the Aurach River, which wound through the town like a green ribbon.

"Fun fact," Andreas continued. "During the height of the family feud, the town was literally divided. People on one side of the river wore Adidas, people on the other wore Puma. Even the pubs were segregated."

"That’s insane," Wirtz said, shaking his head.

The route took them out of town and into the surrounding countryside, past rolling green hills and farmland stretching toward the horizon. The air smelled of fresh-cut grass and wildflowers, allowing the players to enjoy the moment.

The group cycled along a quiet country road, farmland stretching endlessly on either side. Rakim found himself settling into a groove as they went through a game of chase the leader, where the last guy would speed to the front. Once you were in the pack, you could enjoy the view and relax, and just had to focus on the coach’s commands, which would occasionally change the pace.

"Rakim, you’re up!" Andreas called from the very back of the pack.

He dropped into a lower gear and accelerated, legs burning as he pushed past Ginter, then Volland, working his way up the line. He reached the front, pulling alongside Jonas, comfortably slotting into the line ahead of Neuer. "Not bad. Thirty-two seconds from back to front. Leno’s record today is twenty-eight."

A few more players got their go as they crested a small hill, and Andreas pointed to a cluster of buildings in the valley below. "That’s our turnaround point. The old Puma facility. We’ll loop back from there."

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TO BE CONTINUED...