I was out of town, doing a bit of visiting. I heard my wise father figure Hansi Flick had finally taken the time to settle down in the countryside. Rightfully so, after what he’d been through, with all the pent-up stress and frustration built up over the years of coaching the most successful Spanish club ever. “How have things been buddy?” I asked, as I saw my man step out of the house upon hearing my car come in the drive-through. “All good, life’s been a lot more chill, now that I’ve retired,” he answered. “Hey, wanna check out my animals out back? I’ve taken up farming as a hobby with my free time,” as he motioned over to the back gate. We headed out and he started introducing me to some of the livestock, mentioning how he had named them after his players, as the unhinged animals they were. Just then, I was hit by an unbearable stench. With my eyes watering uncontrollably, I questioned through gritted teeth, “What in the hell is that smell?” He looked over knowingly and said: "Ah. Raphinha? The goat is never washed.”