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Saturday night, underground boxing event in an old industrial basement. 200 people, stifling air, neon lights, deafening noise. I'm standing right at the front of the ring. Two guys in the final: on the left, "Rico" (29, 6'4", tattooed ex-hooligan, broad shoulders, deep scar above his eye), on the right, "Dima" (27, Eastern European burly, full beard, chest and arms completely covered in black tattoos). Both barefoot, wearing only tight boxing shorts, their muscles glistening

Once a month, always on Saturdays, my best friend Jonas (21) and I meet for karate training in the small, old dojo. Unlike judo, things get serious here: hard punches, fast kicks, endurance drills until we drop. We love this contrast – judo is ground fighting and throws, karate is explosiveness and precision. After training, we're always the last ones to leave; the others disappear quickly. The two of us stay, tidy up a bit, talk about techniques, and laugh about our bad kick

Wednesday evening, 8:30 p.m., the old judo hall smells of mats and fresh air. As always, it's just the three of us: Tim, Ben, and me. Today is Leon's first real session – just turned 18, small, slim, with big eyes and a shy smile. We practice breakfalls with him, laugh a lot, correct his hip alignment, and give him friendly pats on the shoulder. After training, the hall is empty, the coach long gone. As usual, only the four of us shower together; the others go straight home.

I'm sitting in row 12, right behind our college team's bench. The stadium is roaring, the kickoff cracks, and on the very first play, bodies are flying through the air. These guys in their tight, shiny jerseys and white shorts with black stripes—simply works of art. Especially the young starters, all around 20-22, beaming faces, broad shoulders, that innocent arrogance as they high-five each other. My best friend Jake (quarterback, 21, 6'3", brown curls) throws a 40-yard touc

I'm 22 and standing on the first tee early in the morning. The grass still glistens with dew, the air is fresh and clear, and the sun is slowly rising over the hills. No wind, no sound except the chirping of birds and the soft click of my driver as I hit the ball perfectly straight 280 meters. I love this moment: just me, the course, the distance. On the fourth hole, I meet an older gentleman, perhaps in his mid-50s, graying temples, well-groomed, wearing expensive clothes. H

We've been playing together for years, 15 guys, all tall, broad, tattooed, real rugby bulls. After practice, the atmosphere is always electric: pats on the back, loud laughter, someone throwing wet towels. We shower together, no one makes a fuss about nudity – on the contrary, we tease each other about who's the biggest or has the most scrapes. Luan, our new winger, 6'4", Polynesian tattoos down to his crotch, fits right in. That evening, we're just loud, wet, and ecstatic ab

The five of us roll up to the "Iron Skull" on our bikes on Saturday night. The bar is legendary – heavy Harleys lined up in neat rows, inside only blacklight, heavy metal, and the smell of leather and gasoline. Two burly guys stand at the door, bald, with full beards, tattooed up to their chins, wearing leather jackets with club patches. I nod to them, they give us a quick once-over and let us in. Inside it's loud, raw, just right. We drink beer, play pool, and exchange glanc

I immediately sense that Lukas is one of those people who truly understands it. The moment we take off, he shouts with joy, spreads his arms wide, and laughs his head off. I steer us into the first thermal, 1200 meters above the ground, and everything goes silent. Only the soft whir of the lines and his happy gasps. "Better than anything I know!" he yells back. I grin, make a gentle turn, and let us simply fly for a full hour. When we land, he pats me on the shoulder: "Dude,

Four best friends, all in their mid-twenties, athletic, tanned, with short beards and that typical British outdoor look, hike high into the Bavarian Alps on a warm autumn day. The air is crystal clear, the scent of pine and moss everywhere. They laugh loudly, sweating slightly under their tight hiking shirts that cling to their toned torsos. After three hours, they reach a secluded alpine meadow, far from the trails, just them and the mountains. “Fuck, that’s perfect,” says T

I'm sitting on my bed, phone in hand, scrolling through the new photos of the university swimming relay team. The two boys, Lukas and Noah, are simply perfectly built: broad shoulders, narrow waists, legs like marble. Their dark blue competition swim trunks sit low on their hips, water still beading on their skin. I zoom in closer, studying the lines of their abs, the way the light refracts in the tiny water droplets. It's simply fascinating how much strength and discipline t

I'm standing by the pit wall, the sun beating down on the asphalt. Two riders are just rolling out of the pit lane: brand new, immaculate leather suits in deep black and pure white, without a single sponsor sticker. The suits gleam as if they've just stepped out of the box. Their helmets are flipped up; all you can see are their determined eyes and the small beads of sweat on their foreheads. The sound of the engines vibrates in my chest as they roll onto the starting straigh

The snow crunched under my boots as I trudged up the slope, pulling the sled behind me. My friends laughed and shoved each other, their cheeks red with cold and anticipation. Reaching the top, I glanced over the group—and there he was again, Tim, the cutest of them all, with his dark curls peeking out from under his hat and that shy smile that always made my stomach flutter. "Tim, are you riding in front?" I asked, trying to sound cool. He nodded and sat down in the front sea

We're seven 20-year-old freestyle snowboarders, all on the same team, all absolutely addicted to airtime. Today is a perfect powder day in the Austrian Alps: 30 cm of fresh snow, blue skies, the park freshly shaped. We start at 9 a.m. with warm-up runs, then the real fun begins: 540s, 720s, backside boardslides, switch frontside 1080s – everyone trying to outdo each other. The GoPro is rolling, we film each other, laugh when someone falls flat on their face, and celebrate eve

Friday evening, 7:30 p.m., the small hall is reserved just for us. There are eight of us guys between 19 and 24, all friends from the club, and tonight we're playing an internal tournament. Curling is our thing: concentration, precision, team spirit. I'm the skip, I call the line, the others lay, sweep, and clean like crazy. The stones glide, there's a clang, we cheer for every good shot. Three hours of non-stop action, we narrowly beat the "old hands." Afterwards, there's be

We're the U21 ice hockey team, all around 20 years old, and we train like crazy three times a week. Today we have a really intense game against the team from the neighboring city. On the ice, the checks are flying, the pucks are slamming shut, and sweat is pouring. Everyone's giving 100%, muscles are burning, lungs are choking. We fight shoulder to shoulder, shouting encouragement to each other, high-fiving after every good check. In the end, we win 5-3, totally exhausted but

It's December 24th, and it's snowing softly outside. There are four of us: Chris (26), Ben (29), Alex (33), and me (31) – all good friends since university. We've arranged to meet at Alex's parents' old mountain cabin to finally celebrate a proper Christmas together, just the guys. The tree is enormous, almost three meters tall, freshly cut. We decorate it together: fairy lights, glass baubles, straw stars, all in red, gold, and white. "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas"

It was my absolute dream weekend: a real jungle adventure in the dense forests of Southeast Asia. My buddy Tom and I, both 25, had signed up for a guided tour. Our guide was Raj, an experienced local in his 28s who knew the area like the back of his hand. We set off early in the morning fully equipped: backpacks, waterproof shoes, insect repellent, and helmets. First, we hiked through the dense jungle, where we saw countless animals – colorful birds, monkeys swinging from tre

It all started Friday evening: six 20-year-old snowboarders, loaded down with boards, energy drinks, and way too much luggage, crammed into a VW van heading for the Alps. Max was at the wheel, Leon next to him with the playlist, Tim and Jonas in the back with the crate of beer, and Ben and I were in the middle. We spent the whole drive talking nonsense, watching old videos from past winter trips, and getting excited for powder. Saturday morning we were on the slopes by eight,

Saturday morning, 7 a.m., minus 12 degrees Celsius, clear air in the Tyrolean Alps. There are eight of us guys between 19 and 23, all ambitious cross-country skiers, and today is the club's internal competition: 25 km classic, whoever crosses the finish line first gets to brag for a year. I'm standing with the others in the large changing room of the sports center, we're putting on our racing suits, greasing our skis, checking our heart rate monitors. Everyone wants to be the

Every winter, my four best snowboarding buddies and I head up into the mountains. During the day, we shred the parks, build kickers, do 360s, and laugh our heads off when someone crashes again. In the evenings, we hit the après-ski bars, drink Jägertee, and tell each other about the sickest lines of the day. Around midnight, we end up in the hotel spa—the sauna's open until 2 a.m. We sit naked on the wooden benches, sweat it out, jump into the snow outside, and back in again.