Hooligan Page 13

  She looks up from her bowl. Her chin very close over it.

  “You cold?”

  I say, “Hmm.” Which is to say no.

  “You take very good care.”

  I feel my eyebrows shoot up and say, “What?”

  “You take good care. Of pigeons. Of father.”

  For a second I think she’s pulling my leg, and all these years I hadn’t picked up on her subtle, cutting humor. Then I get that she’s actually serious.

  “No, no,” I say and feel my cheeks go very hot, which simultaneously makes me furious. This is how a man without arms must feel when his nads itch. A half-plate later she’s already done with her mouse-sized portion and watches me eat, which makes me terribly nervous. But I can’t really tell her she should look somewhere else.

  “Hans is difficult.”

  I look at her blankly and finish the beer. She’s about to jump up and reach for my glass, but I say I’ve had enough, thanks.

  She eases back again and continues: “Difficult, your father. Has many problems. But very, very nice man. You too.”

  I cough up half a noodle onto my plate, quickly excuse myself, and shovel it back into my mouth. I don’t have the slightest idea how I should answer. Which is why I force my eyes to the rim of the plate and only give polite little glances. She continues to stare at me.

  “My parents long dead. My … um … aunt. Grow up with her. In Bangkok. Big and bright and loud. But also lots of fun there. You must go there once. Very different from Hannover. Not so gray and cold.”

  “I like Hannover.” It spilled out of me, and I think to myself, What kind of blockhead are you?!

  “When you went away, your father was sad. I could see. He not say. But see. Thought maybe you go to your mother and—”

  I’m finished with the noodles, let the fork clatter in the plate, and thank her for the delicious food. Mie whispers a “Thanks,” and together we bring the dishes into the kitchen.

  “Let me,” I say, and wash the dishes and glasses, and place them on the drying rack. I ask Mie if it’s okay if I look for something in my old room. She nods and smiles.

  I flip the switch. The bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling hums and flickers and slowly becomes brighter, as if it were waking up from a deep sleep.

  “What a room full of junk,” I say to myself. “Nothing changed.”

  I doubt Hans has set foot in here since I moved out. The air is harder to breathe, as if it had an expiration date that’s long passed. I open the double window to let in some fresh air. A whopper of a moth immediately flies past me and aims for the light bulb. The moth flings itself against the light like crazy, bangs surprisingly loud. All that’s lacking is the moth saying, “Ouch!”

  I put my hands on my hips and look around, clueless where I should start searching. I look under my bed, but the small space between the slats and the carpet is covered with such a thick layer of dust and cobwebs I don’t want to make the effort to pull out the boxes from underneath. The bulky duvet is just as crumpled as when I left it the morning I moved out. In the middle of the pillow the impression of the back of my head, stamped like a memory. I’d better leave the wardrobe alone, for starters. I still remember that back then I first took out all the clothes and casually tossed the ones I didn’t want anymore back inside and quickly closed the doors. If I opened them now, everything would tumble out onto me. So I pull the stacked shoe boxes from under the sawhorses and the sheetrock slab that formed something like a desk. A butt-load of unsorted pictures. From our legendary trip to the away match in Cottbus, where we were fighting for the chance to move up to a higher league. In one of them, Kai is holding up a blood-covered cup and making a face. In another, you can see me and my uncle from behind. I’d climbed onto the fence to the field, stretching my arms straight out to be able to see better. I’m wearing some kind of training jacket. Can’t remember where I had it from. It’s one of those classic jackets from the eighties and nineties in impossible colors: pink, turquoise, yellow. The sleeves are rolled back because otherwise they’d have slipped over my hands, but it looks like I had exaggeratedly puffed-up biceps. Axel stands next to me, his arms crossed, and is able to look over the fence effortlessly.

  Then photos of Kai, Ulf, Jojo, and me in front of Timpen. We pose, acting cool. Relaxed expressions. Like we’re modeling for an album cover. On another we’re with Joel. He’s in the middle of us. With his pitch-black hair. Side part, as usual. His hair always looked like one of those Playmobil figures. As if you’d be able to click it off his scalp and attach other hair. He’s holding up his 96 jersey. It had to be number seven. We’re lined up behind him. Everyone has one hand on the jersey and one raised fist. Faces fixed in shouts of joy. Naturally, Jojo blinked the very second the picture was taken and looks like a slightly retarded stoner. I put it in my inside jacket pocket.

  Unfortunately, the drills Jojo and I had sketched in pencil for Joel’s private training can’t be found. But my first Bundesliga sticker album from the ’95/’96 season, completely full. It’d felt like Hannover 96 had never been farther from playing in Germany’s top league. I leaf through it. Many old names, hairstyles, and mustaches that I’d already forgotten: Mirko Votava, Tom Dooley, Vladimir Beschastnych, Manni Bender, Heiko Scholz, Alain Sutter, and whatstheirname.

  I toss all that stuff into the boxes and push them back in place. Suddenly, I feel wiped out and tired. At the same time, I feel a need to spend the night in my car in front of Yvonne’s place. I’d like to distract myself and go lifting with Kai but don’t think I’d survive a ride to Hannover tonight.

  I say good-bye to Mie. She locks the door behind me. Then I climb into the VW and drive to the Midas gambling hall, which doesn’t close till six in the morning for an hour so they can tidy up with the vacuum.

  I take a seat at the bar, ordering one coffee after another, not playing with any of the machines, and if I nodded off on my forearm from time to time, it felt like a decade had passed and we’d all grown old and gray and could finally look back at our lives and say: we don’t regret a thing. Would do everything exactly the same way.

  ———

  Four figures stuffed in black suits stood on the field and were making their patent leather shoes dirty. The deep blue sky above us, transected by power lines and occasional clouds that floated above us like chalk penalty mark and sidelines. Joel’s football shoes, black and yellow Adidas Predator, were hanging from the crook of my arm. The knotted laces were rubbing brown marks into my suit while I needed my one hand to drink the warm can of beer and the other to smoke. Jojo stood a couple yards away from me. Ulf behind us. Kai twenty yards in front of us and talking on the phone. In position. Jojo and me the man-to-man markers who took care of everything that might come our way. Ulf, the big man, the last line of defense. Keeps it clean at the back. Kai dodges the opposing defense and only has to sink the thing. Someone was missing. Sonic the dribbling hedgehog. The young genius talent. The free kick prince of Westaue township. There were to be no more genius passes. No Roberto Carlos–style free kicks curled around the wall of defenders. No more dribbling solos.

  Kai came over to us, yelling, “Now toss those things over! I’m shriveling up out here.”

  Jojo looked at his watch.

  “It’s probably about to start. Give ’em here.” I handed him the Predators. The beer went down like brackish peat mud. Jojo placed his can on the soil. Then he trained his sights on the power lines, pulled back, and threw. The shoes didn’t even get close to the lines. He walked over to where they’d landed. Tried again. This time almost straight up. He had to take cover when they came back down.

  “Oh, shit, man, that looks really pitiful,” Kai murmured, having come over to me. We watched Jojo as he threw, failed, ran, threw, failed. Unflagging. Without a break. He became worse with each throw. His lips wobbled when he ran, and he made dust rise. Throw, run, pick them up, throw, run, pick them up.

  Kai rested his arm on my shoulder, groaning. “Godda
mn fucking hell, please let him finally nail it.”

  Ulf forced himself between us and stomped over to Jojo, who gave him the shoes. Ulf flicked his cigarette, took a broad stance, swung the shoes, and then let them slip free at the right moment. They rotated through the air in a high arc, as if someone was still in the shoes and walking with them, and then caught in the lines. We had expected sparks. A little fireworks in Joel’s honor. As a symbol. For Joel. And also for us. Because we were a team. Even if we would all bite the dust at some point, we hoped the shoes at least would remain. Then the church bells rang out loud and clear from over in the village. The service was beginning. We downed the cans of beer. It wasn’t my first that day. We walked four in a row with our heads bowed, like after a defeat.

  Later we sat in the church during the service. Kai, Ulf, and me in the second row. Directly behind Jojo and his parents. I stared at the back of a curly brown mop of hair that was rocking uncontrollably next to Dieter’s shoulder, his head buried in his hands. Jojo and Joel’s mother patted his bent back to comfort him. The pastor gave a generic eulogy, which I complained about in a low voice because it had nothing at all to do with Joel and the cans of beer had gone to my sun-struck head. After which men with unfamiliar, serious faces came to escort me out of the church. A small scuffle ensued, which wouldn’t have drawn the slightest shrug in a bar but in a church immediately caused a fucking hubbub. Ulf and Kai supported me and yelled at the men, telling them to let me go. Kai led me outside, to be on the safe side. I followed the rest of the ceremony from outside, through the closed church doors. Then Ulf brought me back inside for the public viewing. The unfamiliar men and the pastor spoke to the Seidels. Ulf whispered they wouldn’t press charges. I stepped in between Kai and Ulf in the row of mourners. Before the open coffin, Joel’s father faltered. Jojo helped him up, and after making sure he was standing halfway safely, he pulled the jersey with number 7 from his back pocket and placed it over his little brother’s chest. The collar on his neck, the sleeves over his arms. So that he’d be able to play any second now. Then he broke into tears. It was Kai’s turn. Once again, he found unbelievably encouraging words—where, I asked myself, where had he gotten them from? Unfortunately I can’t remember what he said. Then it was my turn. I looked at Joel for a long time. And wanted to look at him far longer. So long he decayed in front of my eyes and then turned to dust or something like that, and then I would inhale him. Not like you sniff coke, but just as naturally as you breathe, and then somehow he would live on with me. Of course, that didn’t happen, and it also sounds really perverted, but that’s what went through my head in that moment. I squeezed my eyelids shut to hold back the tears, and when I opened them again, and when I saw Joel’s quiet, narrow, face in front of me, I said to him: “I’ll see you on Tonga.” Ulf, Jojo, Kai, and me played the role of pallbearers. I rejected the cushion for my shoulder that Ulf offered me. Out of pride or the weird feeling that tolerating a little pain would help Joel in some way. What nonsense! We all started sweating. The shirts clung to our upper bodies. The team was waiting for Joel outside, dressed in their game clothes. That’s what Jojo wanted, because he thought Joel would have wanted it that way. Including shin guards and cleats. The red jerseys shimmered like candlelight in the sun. As we laid him to rest, I asked myself if that was really rest or just complete, all-encompassing oblivion. We let the coffin sink evenly into the hole. Then dirt was trickled down. We would stand there till the next summer. Hands folded, gaze directed into the hole in the ground. In reality, it was only a half an hour. Then there was coffee and cake at Joel and Jojo’s house.

  ———

  This morning I took the fast train from Hannover to Braunschweig. In the industrial area on the west side, I expected trucks or at least a couple of construction workers at some sausage stand around noon or generally during the day. It must have been the coldest day so far this fall. The wind blew the rain diagonally through a fog. The moisture crept under my clothes like a sexual assault.

  The Lucky Luke parking lot is completely washed out. The sign isn’t lit up and looks pale and pitiful. Roaring streams are shooting out of the gutter over the awning, forming a bead curtain of water in front of the entrance. The van is down the street. Even from a distance, I lose interest in getting closer. The van is resting on its rims. The tires are slashed with long gashes. They’d bashed in all of the windows with their telescopic batons or baseball bats. It’s completely sprayed with yellow and blue colors. The fragmented remnants of the busted side mirror and the roof, which was completely cut off, were lying next to the van’s corpse. The roof is upside down. A puddle has formed inside, reflecting not only my pitiful face, but also the fear. What should I tell Axel about this whole fucking mess? On the battered hood, which clearly shows dents from blunt objects, they’ve also sprayed in yellow and blue: PEINE-WEST SONS OF BITCHES. I glance inside the vehicle but immediately regret it. The mustard-yellow stuffing spills out of the slashed seats. The steering wheel’s been ripped out. No sign of it anywhere. The radio stolen or also thrown somewhere. The footwells are filled with liquid that can’t be rainwater, based on its color. The red, semitransparent dildo that was attached to the gear shift with duct tape was also very creative. In addition, dark brown piles of shit are towering on the driver and passenger seats. I take a picture of the vehicle for Kai and the boys. Otherwise they wouldn’t believe me.

  I kick against the driver-side door. One dent more won’t make much of a difference. Then I make my way back to the train station. Just get out of this shit town.

  ———

  We’d been riding a fucking wave of success since Joel had taken the offer from Hannover. At the time, everything we did seemed to succeed. We couldn’t do anything wrong. Well, if you don’t count flaming out in school, but who cares about that?

  It was perfect weather that day. Hazy and gray. Visibility of less than five hundred meters. It was the second-to-last match of the season, and 96 was hosting Borussia Mönchengladbach. Jiri Stajner, our lucky Czech ace, equalized for the Reds in injury time with a shot on the turn in the penalty area. It was perfect. There was no way Hannover could be relegated to a lower league again. Uncle Axel had placed a lot of calls that day and had managed to organize a spontaneous match with a group from Gladbach. The whole thing was supposed to take place on the grounds of the trade fair. Where Hannover had had its fifteen minutes of international fame with the Expo in 2000.

  The men were waiting on the west side of the broad parking lot. It was my job to coordinate the guys. Axel wanted to finish the season with a bang and gave me free reign positioning the scouts after I’d worked hours to convince him.

  We were firmly expecting the Gladbach gang to come from the Trade Fair/Laatzen train station. My uncle had given the station as a final orientation point for the rumble. Ulf was waiting in the hall that stretches across the tracks like a bridge. He was supposed to watch the incoming trains. Anyway, you wouldn’t be able to miss a group of muscle-bound meatheads. When they arrived, he calmly strolled to the entrance and gave a sign to Kai, who was waiting in the pedestrian tunnel leading from the station to the fairgrounds. Me and Kai had already taken the entry doors off their hinges. Even back then, Kai was the fastest of us by far, maybe aside from Joel. He sprinted down the long glass corridor. Jojo was supposed to be hidden with his Airsoft gun at the corner to Nuremberg Street, where the tunnel ends, and make sure not to miss Kai when he ran past and waved at him as went by. Axel impressed this on him.

  “If you’re picking your fucking nose and miss Kai, then I will personally kick your nads back into your torso.”

  “Take it easy, Heiko, don’t piss yourself. I’ll pay attention.”

  I was waiting at the end of the tunnel and could see Kai running toward me through the long, straight glass tube.

  He was yelling something like: “They’re coming! The cocksuckers from Gladbach! They’re here!”

  I took the stairs down to street level in a couple leaps, tw
isting my ankle, and ran against the pain. Over to the parking lot, where the whole gang was already waiting and rubbing their hands.

  “All right. Good job, Heiko,” and then Axel turned to Tomek, who was supposed to lead the splinter group. “You’ll come out in front of Kaufland supermarket.”

  Tomek and the others ran across some company’s grounds to position themselves in an alleyway that came out at about where the corridor did, in order to attack the flanks of the Gladbach group. Axel and the larger group of men followed me back to the end of the sidewalk. Until we arrived, Jojo was supposed to try to pin down some of the Gladbach bastards from the hiding spot he’d taken up on the roof, in typical sniper fashion. He was our best marksman with the Airsoft. A true fucking ace with the gun. His rifle packed a punch, but nothing that could really harm anyone from that distance. It was just supposed to provide some distraction. It was such an awesome feeling, I can still remember how the phalanx of hooligans was running behind me. I kept on looking back and felt like the leader of a horde of rhinos or something. Even if I once heard, I think, that they’re loners. Regardless. It’s all about that feeling. All of them on the double. And I’m out in front of them. Even if I wasn’t allowed to participate in the actual clash. At any rate, we turned onto the sidewalk and could already see the group from Gladbach bellowing, and heard the dull shots of Jojo’s air rifle. Then Axel resumed the leadership. Like in fucking Jumanji, when Robin Williams yells, “It’s a stampede!” Galloping toward the guys from Gladbach, who are still totally preoccupied with dodging Jojo’s BBs. Just before Axel and the others reached them, Tomek and his group came out of the alleyway between Kaufland and the factory grounds and had just knocked a couple of them over. Then Axel and Hinkel, who was a little more fit than he is today, and Töller and the rest of them reached the opponents. Unfortunately, the four of us had to watch from a safe distance, but I still felt like I was in the middle of it and would catch some punches, but dodge even more, and dish it out myself. My heart nearly jumped out of my chest. That’s how much it was thumping inside me.