Hooligan Read online

  Copyright © 2016 by Aufbau Verlag GmbH & Co. KG

  English-language translation copyright © 2018 by Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Arcade Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

  First English-language Edition

  First published in Germany in 2016 under the title Hool by Aufbau Verlag GmbH&Co. KG

  The translation of this work was supported by a grant from Goethe Institut.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Winkler, Philipp, 1986– author. | Schmidt, Bradley, translator.

  Title: Hooligan : a novel / Philipp Winkler ; translated from the German by Bradley Schmidt.

  Other titles: Hool. English

  Description: First English-language edition. | New York : Arcade Publishing, [2018] | “Copyright ? 2016 by Aufbau Verlag GmbH & Co. KG”. — ECIP galley

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017060026 (print) | LCCN 2018001363 (ebook) | ISBN 9781628728682 (ebook) | ISBN 9781628728675 (hardcover : alk. paper)

  Subjects: LCSH: German fiction—21st century. | Friendship—Fiction. | Families—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PT2725.I549 (ebook) | LCC PT2725.I549 H6613 2018 (print) | DDC 833/.92—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017060026

  Cover design by Erin Seaward-Hiatt

  Cover photograph: iStockphoto

  Printed in the United States of America

  For my parents

  TRANSLATOR’S NOTE

  Heiko Kolbe, the narrator of this novel, is torn between feelings of obligation for his family and for the surrogate family he has found in the hooligan scene affiliated with his local professional Fussball club, Hannover 96. The “96” in the name refers to the year the club was established, 1896. Football, in its various translations, is how the rest of the world refers to what Americans call “soccer.” In this book, to better reflect Heiko’s Fussball universe, we’ve retained the term closest to the one he would use in German.

  One difference between European professional football and the franchise model of North American soccer is the possibility of relegation. Depending on the size of the league, the two or three teams with the worst record are relegated, or sent down, to a lower league, and are replaced by teams ascending from that league. This system enhances the stakes for a team’s performance. Several of the novel’s most exciting scenes revolve around the possibility of Hannover 96 moving up or down.

  Fans like Heiko and his friends, who avidly follow a team despite its bouncing between the highest league and lower tiers, are the opposite of fair-weather fans. The most faithful fans might even place a higher priority on attending a match between their club’s “U23” reserve team, comprised of players only under the age of twenty-three, than on the commercialized games of the main team. It’s also common to follow both the main pro club like Hannover and a local small-town team, such as TSV Luthe, based near Hannover, as Heiko and his friends do.

  Heiko’s world is peppered with references to past and current Hannover players, such as the former goalies Sievers and Robert Enke, the coach Michael Lorkowski, or other stars from the 2000s like Bernd Schneider, Ansgar Brinkmann, and Roberto Carlos.

  Hannover 96 and Eintracht Braunschweig are archrivals in this book and in real life. Because of the vagaries of success and league structure, some archrivals seldom meet on the field except in a cup match.

  Finally, the ultra fan movement has been relatively diverse and includes groups of both right-wing and left-wing ideologies. While most ultras are primarily focused on supporting their local team, hooligans are mostly interested in organizing and carrying out brawls with other hooligans. Heiko and his friends Kai, Ulf, and Jojo, gradually move up within the Hannover hooligan scene. Although there is some overlap between the gang and the right-leaning Wotan Gym run by Heiko’s uncle, Axel, it would be a mistake to equate the hooligans with a right-wing gang. However, Axel rules the group with an iron fist. Although Hooligan might at first glance seem to be just a novel about a crazy sports fan, it is worth noting that identifying with a team with a history stretching back more than one hundred years—outlasting numerous forms of political organization and spanning two world wars—offers a stable kind of tradition. It is natural that the book’s working-class protagonists gravitate toward teams like Hannover 96.

  I warm my new mouth guard between my palms. Use my fingers to rotate it and squeeze it a little. It’s what I do before each fight. The plastic holds firm, with just a small amount of give. It’s a fabulous piece. You almost can’t get any better. Specially made by the dental technician. Not one of those mass-produced cheapo jobs you can toss after two weeks ’cause the edges cut into your gums. Or you constantly want to gag from the horrible fit and the chemical smell of the plastic. By now, almost all of us have one of these mouth guards, except Jojo with his paltry janitor’s wages. Kai, who always has to have the finest shit. Ulf has no problem paying for it. Tomek, Töller. And some of our boys who have the right jobs. Uncle Axel, of course. He’s the one who discovered the dental technician a couple years ago. Specializes in contact sports and takes care of martial artists all over Germany. I hear the people from Frankfurt go to him and some of the boys from the East. From Dresden and Halle, Zwickau. Probably have to lay out their whole month’s check from the government, I think, and run the tips of my fingers over the ventilation holes.

  “Hey, Heiko!” Kai pokes me in the side. “Your phone.” The knock-off phone buzzes between us on the seat. I reach for it, my fingers shaking. My uncle watches me in the side mirror. I press the button with the green symbol.

  “Where are you? We’re waiting,” the voice of the guy from Cologne I organized the match with comes through the phone. I roll down the window so I can see better, look for any points of reference.

  “We’re on highway B55 near Olpe. Should be right there.”

  “Hit Desert Road. Turn right off the second traffic circle. On Bratzkopf, straight till you’ve passed the city limits. Woods on the left. Can’t miss it.”

  Before he hangs up, I remind him one more time about our deal. Fifteen men on each side. Then I hang up.

  “Well?” Axel asks without turning around. He’s still watching me in the side mirror. Despite the sun’s reflection, I can recognize his piercing gaze. How he’s scrutinizing me closely. I pass along the directions and stress that I reminded the guy about the agreement.

  “I heard,” he says and turns to Hinkel, who’s at the wheel as usual. Axel repeats the directions. As if Hinkel didn’t hear me, or Hinkel could only drive that way if the directions come from him. I notice how Kai is looking at me from the side. The corners of his mouth spread. In solidarity. If I look at him now, he’s probably rolling his eyes. Telling me, fucking hell, what a control freak. Something like that. But I don’t react, just see whether Hinkel takes the right turn. He grunt
s, which probably means he understood. Hinkel grips the wheel, his meatloaf hand at twelve o’clock. Beads of sweat are trapped in the long hairs on the back and glitter in the sun. It looks like a comb-over in the wrong place. He lets the other hand dangle out the window.

  Tomek, sitting on Kai’s left, scrolls through his phone with disinterest. It’s an East Bloc thing. Always the same Slavic face. Good mood or bad. You can’t tell the difference. He’d probably have the same expression if he won the lottery. It wouldn’t be surprising if he’s pissed off. After all, Kai called shotgun before him. Probably doesn’t even know it. Now he has to sit exactly where Jojo bled all over with his destroyed nose. Jojo’s snorter really suffered. And the seat padding too. And besides, that’s clearly the spot you don’t want to sit on hot days. Behind Hinkel. Even with the window open.

  Kai lifts his ass an inch above the seat and slips his powder tin from the back pocket of his Hollister jeans. He unscrews the lid and shovels a pile of blow onto his thumb, holding it under one nostril then the other, snorting. The car is jostling quite a bit, but he manages not to lose any. He throws his head back. His gelled boxer haircut scratches over the greasy seat cover. He holds out the tin for me.

  “Want some? Maybe then you won’t fill your pants.” He grins. I grin back and say, “Better to have your pants full than your nose, Ms. Winehouse.” He laughs. It’s been quite a while since I last took something. He extends his middle finger while screwing the lid back on. My uncle clears his throat loudly. Kai shrugs his shoulders and deposits the tin back in his jeans. He knows very well Axel can’t stand it when we mess up our heads with something before a match. Even stuff like coke, which clears your brain. But that’s one thing even Uncle Axel can’t get from people. That’s why he usually lets it slide, so long as no one gets carried away. Besides, Axel’s been known to sample the goods. A lot of people need it for their nerves. Well, that or just ’cause they’re junkies. But Axel doesn’t bring along anyone who can’t get a grip. At least not to the important matches. Like today. When it’s really about representing Hannover with honor. Kai may be a heavy hitter when it comes to blow, but he’s too good to leave home. Against him all those pumped-up boys seem as mobile as bulldozers. And thanks to me, he holds back a bit before the matches. Besides, my uncle knows very well he couldn’t always count on me if he left Kai on the bench. The yellow city limit sign from Olpe flies by the passenger side window of the T5 VW van. I lean forward, my face between Hinkel and my uncle.

  “Now go straight—”

  “Straight to the first circle, second right,” Axel interrupts me. I fall back on my seat and respond to Kai’s rolling his eyes by rolling my own. He hands me a cigarette. I light it and take a long drag. The space between the metal supports of the headrest in front of me is completely filled by my uncle’s meaty red neck. His shoulders, so angular, as if constructed with a carpenter’s square, protrude to the left and right of the seat. I exhale a plume of smoke toward the red surface between the braces and say, “Exactly.”

  We turn off onto a dry forest path. The sand crunches under the tires. We’re immediately enveloped by the shade of the rustling trees. It’s good to be out of the direct sunlight, and I notice how the slight cooling makes me somewhat calmer. It started when we left Olpe. That feeling that always comes just before things go crazy. I don’t know if it’s comparable with stage fright, I never had stage fright, after all. At any rate, it feels like something in my stomach begins to float. As if my belly was filled with helium and pressing up against my lungs from below.

  “There,” Hinkel says and points ahead with his fat, hairy finger. The three of us on the backseat crane our necks just to see something. A fair ways down the path we see the motorcade from Cologne. The guys stand around in front of their cars. Axel turns around and stares through the back window. I instinctively move my head to the side so he can see better but then immediately think to myself that I should cool it. I look back too. Everything’s okay. The others are behind us, like before. No one got cold feet and turned around. I would have been very surprised.

  “Park here,” my uncle orders. Hinkel maneuvers the van as best he can on the grass strip between the forest path and the bushes. The others park behind us. We get out. The guys from Cologne park the same way. Just on the other side of the path. When the gig here is over, everyone will get back in their cars and disappear in opposite directions.

  Axel walks around the hood of the car, positioning himself in the middle of the path, legs spread wide. I take my mouth guard out of the case and don’t let my uncle escape my gaze. Tomek takes up position beside him. They put their heads together. I lean toward Kai and ask him for a cig. He tries to fumble the pack out of his tight jeans. I hold out my hand, keep on looking over to Axel, who is inspecting the guys from Cologne, hands on hips.

  “Come on,” I say, “any day now.”

  “Take it easy,” Kai mumbles. I sway, rocking from one leg to the other. I go over to Axel and Tomek when I finally have a cigarette between my fingers.

  “What?” Axel bellows when he notices someone approaching. Then he sees it’s me. His jaw relaxes somewhat and he briefly rests his paw on my shoulder and pulls me closer.

  “I just counted them,” Tomek says with his Polack accent. It sounds like “cow-ted.” “Fifteen men plus camera.”

  “Everyone got their red T-shirt on?” Axel asks. Could turn around and look himself, I think, but bite my tongue, of course. I passed out the T-shirts before we left. Precisely so we wouldn’t have to be waiting around now.

  “Everyone does,” I say.

  I want to add what I’ve worked out regarding formation. That we should try to put the massive guys in front. Like a breakwater, more or less. That way, we could catch a little of the first impact, even if it’s at the cost of speed. But Axel raises his hand to signal I should be quiet. I haven’t even said half a sentence. One of the guys from Cologne walks toward us. I’m guessing he’s the guy I was in touch with.

  “Okay,” Axel says.

  I don’t know who to, exactly.

  “Heiko. You make sure the others are ready.”

  He holds his hand out in front of me as if wanting to block my path, which isn’t necessary, and goes toward the other guy, who has stopped in the middle distance and was waiting for one of us. I feel completely taken for a ride. After all, the agreement between Axel and me was that I would handle all the logistics this time. I try to swallow it. Tomek pats me on the arm. There is a faded tattoo of some woman on his hand. I look at him briefly, then at the ground, saying, “Fuck it,” and grind out my cigarette.

  Kai stands in front of the van with a cig in his mouth and examines himself in the tinted windows. He plucks at his short spiky hair. Everyone else is wearing the red T-shirts I passed out. He has a red Fred Perry polo on. At least he left the collar down for once. I step next to him, look at him first, then myself.

  “You actually know how insane you are?”

  Kai doesn’t react, keeps on rocking from side to side and rolls his cigarette between his lips, humming. My face next to his in the dark brown-tinted windows. Expressionless. Corners of my mouth pointed toward the ground. Brow furrowed. Dead serious. At least my hair is shaved back down to a millimeter. A huge shadow pushes across the reflection in the car window.

  “Hey, ya losers. It’s been a while,” says Ulf. “Ready?”

  “I was fuckin’ born ready,” Kai says and slams his right elbow into his left palm, making a slapping sound.

  I blow air through my lips. “You’re a retard,” I say. I turn around and look at Ulf, who’s at least a head taller than me: “Way too long.”

  “Tell that to Jojo’s crooked nose.”

  We laugh. Ulf gazes down the path. He asks why my uncle’s down there shooting the shit again. If it wasn’t my turn this time. I nod, but simultaneously lift my shoulders, what do I know?

  “Come on, you know Axel,” Kai weighs in. “Little uncle doesn’t like to hand over the
reins.”

  “Fuck it. He should do what he wants,” I say. Ulf shrugs his shoulders too. The XXL shirt stretches tight around his chest and biceps. His collar looks like it might burst any second.

  “You set this up here, after all.”

  I nod again, say I actually don’t give a fuck so long as there’s finally another rumble. We haven’t had a single match since the new season started. Hinkel and a couple of the other old warhorses come back from taking a piss, breaking through the bushes. All of them form a semicircle around Axel. Skulls roll from shoulder to shoulder. Arms are stretched. Hands are shaken loose.

  “Straighten up now! Let’s go!” Axel calls.

  I swallow my mouth guard. Bite down. The nervousness is only just an aftertaste. We form three rows across the width of the path. The adrenaline courses through my body. I get light-headed.

  The squad lurches forward. Axel and Tomek are a step ahead of us. Ulf and Kai next to me. Fucking hell, he’s grinning, and it gets me started. Then I look straight ahead. At the wall of shaved heads and white shirts pushing toward us. They become faster, bellowing, “Hanoi whores!” Several raise their fists.

  Now we accelerate. Watch our footing. You need firm ground to step on. Otherwise you’ve already lost. They’re running. We are too. Don’t stumble now! Don’t step on Axel’s heel! Soon. I feel hands on my back pushing me forward. As if that was needed. Any second now!

  One last howl. The forest falls silent. Then bodies slam into each other. Fists and legs are swung. I still see Axel basically sucked into the Cologne throng. A guy in front of me. A fist comes toward me. I take the swing. Duck under the blow. Throw myself against him. He doesn’t fall. Fucker’s too stable. He’s huffing and puffing. They fly past all around me. Entangled. Tilted. In a headlock. The bald guy in front of me is ripped. Who cares? Raise your block. Fake a move to the left. He had the same idea. Is surprised. His punch is hasty. Slides past. Land a jab against his jaw. He groans. Stumbles. Not a clean hit. He comes hunched over, hands raised. I want to juke him again, then someone slams into me from behind. No chance. His fist slams directly onto my collarbone. Probably aimed for my face. Lucked out again. But my collarbone yowls. Seems to vibrate. Fuck it, I tell myself. I jump forward. Fake right. Juked him out. Fucker wasn’t expecting that. He whips his hands up. Kidney shot. He bends over but is able to stay up. His hands instinctively go toward his kidneys. Tough luck! I slam a haymaker straight into his ugly kisser. Folds like a pocket knife, bends over and groans. Spits his mouth guard in the sand. Teeth covered in blood. Stay down, damn it! Stay down! I look around. Not too long! He stays down. Begs off, eyes clenched in pain. My vision is narrow as a bottleneck. I peer through and see Kai. In a clinch. Fucker from Cologne is tugging at his polo shirt. Kai tries to pull free. He pivots, his opponent comes along and raises dust. Another white shirt behind him. No fucking way, you bastard! The guy lifts his leg as I charge. Catches my groin. I’m a fucking idiot! Lose my footing, but catch myself with my hands. He’s already on top of me. Gets a knee to my side. Breath knocked out of me. Try to catch myself. My hand slips and bends in an unnatural direction. Pain shoots from my wrist up into my shoulder. A taste like Styrofoam in the back of my mouth. No time. He comes. I push off him. Create some space. The goon falls for it. Gives me time to get up. My hand is numb. Not my elbow. My left straight-arm connects with his blocking arm and pulls it to the side. Then I slam my elbow into his trap. He goes down. Coughs. Gags and holds his face. I wait. Keep moving. He removes his hand, looks at it. A wide, shining cut over his left eye gushes. He stays down. I’m winded myself. There’s just isolated, exhausted skirmishes that slowly disentangle. I put my hands on my hips. The air jags through my lungs like shards of glass. Fucking cigs! Now light one up. Some commotion behind me. Töller stands in the bushes, a good two meters away. Tatters of his T-shirt hang from his upper body. I go over to him, see he’s standing over a guy bleeding with a split lip. The guy holds his hand feebly in front of his face, but Töller gets in two more shots and is screaming at him. I grab Töller’s arm. My other hand around his waist and pull him away.