Last Sunday, the streets of Germany fell silent. Not a soul walked the streets. The parks were deserted. The Autobahns empty.
As a country of church-goers, this is not such an unusual occurrence. However, the forced exile from the streets continued past eleven a.m., through lunch time, and well in to the afternoon.
The empty streets conjured thoughts of what things would be like after the world has gone completely bankrupt, and it's citizens have returned to living in caves.
The reason for the exodus of people was not due to a sudden increase in church congregations. The Germans were worshiping. However, the subject of their faith and devotion last weekend was not Jesus of Nazareth, but Michael of Hürth.
The return of Michael Schumacher to Formula One has captivated the countries press and people alike. RTL TV's coverage of Sundays season-opening Bahrain Grand Prix began with two hours of features and reminiscing of the nations heroes career.
Early figures showed a 50% increase in viewers over the same race last season, and over 50% of all televisions in the country were tuned in to RTL to watch the prodigal sons return to the racetrack.
After watching the race I went to the Pub. The furore was still continuing there, as grandmothers could be overheard discussing the race over a coffee. While the rest of the sausage brigade were sat at the bar discussing the events they had just watched over several glasses of the local brew.
I attended three Grand Prix during Michael Schumachers hiatus from the sport. All of which were overrun with tens of thousands of Germans waving Ferrari flags emblazoned with their favourite, at that time, retired drivers name.
So what of Britains sporting heroes? What of the athletes and sportsmen and women that we worshiped throughout their careers and long after their swan-song?
It was reported recently that the BBC's viewing figures for the recent Winter Olympics were the corporations highest for two years.
Why were we so keen to sit up half of the night watching men in diving suits compete in sports that due to the tropical climate we experience in the UK, we're never likely to be able to excel at like on a large scale as we have done in the past in other sports.
Can anyone remember the final race of last seasons Formula One championship, which saw Britains Jenson Button take the drivers championship crown? The race itself? The Venue?
How many people tuned in to ITV's Champions League coverage of Man Who vs AC Milan last week, purely to see the emotion on David Beckhams face as he entered the Old Trafford pitch, for what certainly could be the final time in his club career?
And how many people have spent their evenings this week in front of the TV following Andy Murray at the ATP Masters Series in California? Or their mornings following the exploits of the England cricket team in Bangladesh?
Why as a nation of supposed sports lovers, and a nation who like to think we invented most sports, do we follow most sports with such a distance? Most of us follow a sport of some kind, but in most cases that renders us almost oblivious to the existence of other sporting disciplines in which our countries participants need our support.
Not even sporting visionaries are safe. Those that strive to make us more aware of the vast sporting world out there are open to criticism, as proved by a 2006 survey by the BBC which revealed that a quarter of Londoners were unhappy that the city had been awarded the right to host the 2012 summer Olympic Games.
Maybe its our lack of personal participation in sport these days that makes us inherently ignorant to its wider existence and importance to some? Mr. Brown and Co. keep calling us fat - so maybe we are, and we see the arrival of the Olympics in London as another shot in our direction from those telling us to get off our arses and down the gym.
I follow many sports, some almost to an obsessive level, and sports I don't particularly like, I still try to muster the effort to follow to some degree.
I try to participate too - I play tennis. I love the game. Even with my advancing years, and total lack of any level of fitness whatsoever, I still love being on court.
While running around like an injured bull, swinging my racket at thin air, all during the course of being heavily defeated by some overweight teenager with skin problems, I still (like anyone surely would) have images running though my head of a slightly slimmer me being crowned in glory and adulation on Philippe Chatrier court at Roland Garros.
Meanwhile, back on Earth, I do (again, like anyone surely would) ask myself the question most people have asked themselves at some point in their lives - what if?
What if I had taken up playing tennis at the age of 10 instead of 29? Would I have been successful? Would I be earning millions every year from my sporting prowess and numerous sponsorship deals? Would I have the nation captivated by my very being, hanging on every word to leave my lips? Maybe, maybe not.
I do believe however, that despite my bulging trophy cabinet, bulging bank balance and hugely successful range of weapons grade fragrances, that my life may not be so different to how it is now.
I may be a tennis pro, I may have lots of money. But still this is after all the UK, so virtually no one would know who I am, and no one would plan their Sunday around watching me on TV.
Maybe I should don a baby-gro and take up ski-jumping.
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