Philip Kerr - Hand of God

‘And John, you’re not expecting the ball — that much is obvious — but why not? Every one of you, at every moment of the game, should be expecting the ball. A — E — T — F — B. Always expect the fucking ball. But here, because neither of you is thinking on the ball, you’re just trying to get rid of it, so the pass to poor Zénobe is nothing short of fucking desperate.

‘Remember what I said before the match, what I say before every match: creative thinking on the ball means knowing what you’re going to do with it before you even get it. And that means reading the other players around you like they’re chess pieces, seeing the space around them and what they can do with it better than they can. R — T — P and F — T — S. Read the players and find the space.’

I waited another second before springing my surprise.

‘But here’s the real reason why we fucked up and Jamie Vardy scored. And for this we go right back to when Kenny rolls out to Kwame. A second before, he looks up and sees Prometheus in all that space and he’s clearly going to punt that ball up to him. He’s found the player in space. But then he changes his mind. Why? Because with his Comanche Indian eyesight he reads the player and sees that Prometheus has his back to him; when I freeze the action and move the picture you can see it for yourself; there’s Prometheus. See? There’s the back of his head, and it’s pointed at Kenny for how many seconds — let’s see now. Jesus Christ, it’s ten seconds.

‘A — E — T — F — B. Always expect the fucking ball. Always expect the fucking ball. But, Prometheus, you’re watching — I don’t know what the fuck you’re watching for ten seconds — but it isn’t the fucking ball. So what, asks Kenny, would be the point of firing the ball up the pitch to him? He’s enjoying the sunshine. Thinking about his pet hyena. That’s why Kenny rolls out. Because he doesn’t have a choice. And that, gentlemen, is the true story of Jamie Vardy’s fucking goal.’

Prometheus stood up in his seat, arms flapping like an angry penguin. His face was quivering so much that one of the diamond studs in his ears was flashing like a little flashlight.

‘It’s my fault that he scored?’ said Prometheus. ‘I was miles away from that geezer when he scored.’

‘Maybe you weren’t listening to what I was saying. Maybe there’s something wrong with your ears as well as the muscles in your neck.’

‘Why is it always me who fucks up in this team?’

‘You tell me, sonny.’

Prometheus shook his head.

‘It’s not fair,’ he bleated.

‘You’re right. It’s not fair to the men on this team that you should let them down so badly. I don’t know what else to call it when you’re not even looking to see where the ball is going. A — E — T — F — B. Always expect the fucking ball. But maybe you’re different, kid. Maybe you’re the one person on this planet who has developed eyes in the back of your head. Maybe you can watch the ball while seeming to look the other way. That’s a good trick although I can’t see how that helps your team mates. Because that’s what this game is all about.’

Prometheus sat down heavily and punched the seat in front of him which, fortunately, was unoccupied.

It’s a two-hour drive from Leicester City to east London. I waited until we were halfway down the M11, just north of Harlow, before I left my seat and went and sat down beside him. There was a strong smell of aftershave and liniment. On his iPad Air a game of Angry Birds was in progress. He was wearing in-ear Monster Beats and the bright red cables that trailed from them looked like blood streaming out of his skull and down his neck. Certainly the big bass punch seemed loud enough to have made anyone’s ears bleed.

Seeing me he sighed, plucked the in-ear buds from his lugs like a weary adolescent and waited silently for the one-on-one bollocking he assumed was coming.

‘You know,’ I said, ‘life is full of conflict. That’s what keeps it interesting. People have bust-ups all the time and because football is a high-intensity game, the bust-ups are pretty intense, too. When I was playing at Arsenal I remember our team captain, Patrick Vieira — big guy — taking me by the scruff of the neck and telling me that if I didn’t shape up he was going to sort me out. He meant it, too. He was from Senegal and in Senegal you don’t make that kind of threat unless you mean it. Frankly, he was the best player in his position I ever met. I mean, he had so much talent — much more than I ever had. But I was scared of him, too, so I did sort myself out. It was just what I needed at that time. Someone like him, who was prepared to talk to me like my big brother and point out my defects.

‘But the important thing in life is that we learn from our mistakes and get on with each other afterwards. That’s what a team is all about. It’s like a big family, all brothers. Lots of testosterone and lots of fighting. Only we fight and then we forgive each other’s errors and mistakes. Because we’re brothers.

‘When we were back in Russia you said your mother never knew your father. You referred to yourself as a black bastard; I’m guessing that you actually believe that. I think that it’s your default position. You think you’re bad. Maybe you think you’ll be a better player if you’re even badder. But I’m here to tell you that this isn’t the best way. Not for a true professional. Now I’ve been lucky. My dad is still around. But Patrick wasn’t so lucky. His parents divorced when he was very young and Patrick never saw the guy again. But Patrick didn’t let it affect him. I tell you, I never met a guy with more discipline than Patrick. Hugely talented, like I said, but even more disciplined.

‘You’re one of the most naturally gifted young players I’ve ever seen. And I don’t think you’re nearly as bad as you seem to think you are. You can be a great player at any club you choose to go to. But talent isn’t enough. You’re going to need discipline to make the most of your talent, just like Patrick Vieira. Like we all do, frankly.’

I nodded. ‘Here endeth the lesson.’

‘Thanks, boss.’

I held out my hand.

Prometheus grinned and shook it.

‘A — E — T — F — B,’ he said.

I grinned back at him. ‘Always expect the fucking ball. Damn right.’

On the following Monday morning the team flew to Athens where the temperature was as high as when I’d been there. Tempers were even higher: the teachers were on strike; the courts were on strike; even the local doctors were on strike. Fortunately we’d brought our new quack from London. His name was Chapman O’Hara and he’d stepped up from the ranks of City’s growing medical department to take charge of the team’s health issues. We’d also brought Denis Abayev, the team nutritionist, and our travel manager, Peter Scriven, had hired a special team of local chefs who were all Panathinaikos fans and therefore bitter rivals of Olympiacos, because I certainly hadn’t forgotten what had happened to Hertha at their team hotel in Glyfada. The last thing I wanted close to a Champions League match was a team brought down with food poisoning.

The hotel Astir Palace occupied a beautiful, pine-dotted peninsula in Vouliagmeni, the heart of the Athenian Riviera, about half an hour south of the city of Athens. Peter Scriven had chosen well: the only access was along a private road with a security barrier and constantly manned guardhouse which meant that any over-enthusiastic Olympiacos fans bent on driving by our hotel with car horns blaring couldn’t get near the place. The hotel itself had seen better days, perhaps. It lacked the class of the Grande Bretagne, not to mention the historic views; food was simple and the bar poorly stocked; and although numerous, the service staff were slow and indifferent. The facilities were, however, ideal for accommodating a bunch of grown-up adolescents: an individual bungalow for each player; a large and well-equipped Technogym; a nice swimming pool that overlooked the sea; several private beaches. There was even a five-a-side football pitch. In front of the hotel were a heliport and a small marina where Vik’s helicopter and yacht-tender were already in constant attendance of The Lady Ruslana which was anchored in the sea about a hundred metres offshore, and facing the hotel. It looked like a small pearly-white island.