Philipp Winkler - Hooligan

“Three beers, Skipper,” Axel says soberly.

I feel the rage radiate out from my fists and temples, spreading across my body. I wouldn’t have thought it possible to do what I do next: I extend my index finger and say, “Skipper, they don’t get nothin’ here!”

He takes his hand from the tap and mutters, “Too right.”

Before the Nazis or Axel or anyone can react, I grab Ratface by the shoulders, yank him up from the chair, and throw him at the middle table. His back slams against the edge of the table, and the table slides sideways. It was all too fast for him, and before he’s back on his feet I grab him again, pull him close to me, and give it to him. Straight to his crooked fucking nose, immediately producing a cut to the bridge. Falls over limply. I register chair and table legs scraping over the floor tiles through what feels like a down duvet wrapped around my head. Then Fatface is coming at me. Lumbering and uncertain what he even wants to do, I’m able to deftly step aside and smack him. He grunts in pain as my fist slams into the side of his belly. Ulf’s already there and grabs his neck with both hands, pulls him away, and throws him to the floor as if he were made of marshmallow. The third Nazi runs at Kai, but Kai doesn’t mess around. He takes his beer glass from the counter and knocks it over the dude’s dome with a crash. He yells, and the blood flows down his forehead and over his face so he has to pinch his eyes shut. We grab the three assholes. Töller, who’s standing close to the door, holds it open for us with a broad grin. We throw the Nazis from Langenhagen out on their ear. Stay in front of the door and watch how they check out all their individual parts and disappear with their tails tucked between their legs. However, Kai doesn’t pass up the opportunity to hawk a loogie from way deep down.

“Yeah, fuck off, you fucktards!” I yell after them, middle finger extended.

We go back inside.

Kai jokingly slams his fist against my bicep and says, “Ah, man, what a beautiful thing. Now time for a beer.”

I shake my head, don’t say a word, and walk past him. Then I push the tables and chairs back in place and apologize to Skipper, who waves me off.

My uncle. Sitting there at the regulars’ table. Still sitting there. Like Jesus on one of those paintings of the Last Supper. I just look at my uncle. My skull feels electric. My cheekbones are almost bursting out from the pressure. Then I grab my phone and wallet from the counter and leave Timpen without a word.

After spending the evening not answering my phone and stalking through Hannover, cursing to myself silently, I calmed down somewhat and was sitting with Kai on the roof of his house. We bought a chunk of hash from his roommate and smoked one doobie after another, and I was just venting to him, with him adding “exactly” and “hmm” and “fo’ sho’” at precisely the right moment. He didn’t have to do anything else. I didn’t ask for anything more. Just being able to rant about what a crock of shit, and what the fuck was my uncle thinking when he decided he could invite in anyone and everyone he wanted, what was the point of the whole Sun King act, and why, of all people, this particular group of brown-assed Nazi sons of bitches, as if he wasn’t aware of what kind of example that would set, as if he’s from the fucking moon, as if he wants a situation like they have in Aachen or Rostock or even Braunschweig, and then I tell him we’re gonna do that thing with Braunschweig, that we’re gonna drive over there and really kick their asses, and if we do it, then we’ll do it right, and do it my way, you’re goddamn fucking right we are!

And Kai yells: “Damn right! Goddamn fucking hell!” from our roof down into the canyons of the buildings below. And Hannover is lit up from a thousand wounds in the darkness.

And from somewhere down below someone bellows, “Settle down! Can’t a man drink a beer in peace anymore?!”

“Stupid idea, Heiko, just a fucking stupid idea,” I say and examine myself in the rearview mirror of my car. The impression of the headrest can be seen clearly on my cheek. I don’t even know why I do it to myself and keep coming back again and again. But I’m also not able to prevent myself.

A glance at the clock: it’s just after 3 a.m. I’ve been hanging here for a good two hours. Should at least have grabbed something to drink at the gas station. I lean my seat back as far as it goes. It clicks, and I try stretching my tingling legs to find a more comfortable position. I look up at Yvonne’s bedroom window. It’s the only room on the street with the light still on. Here and there you can see the blue flicker from a television screen on the visible ceilings and walls. I shift the driver’s seat lower so I don’t have to move my head to have a direct view of Yvonne’s window. I turn the spare key to her apartment over in my fingers, running my thumb over the teeth. Just like I did when I swiped it from the basket in the hallway. When we were still together, I was never allowed to have it. Of course, I always asked why, but the question soon became pointless. Maybe she already had the locks changed long ago.

“Fuck it,” I groan and deposit the key in the glove compartment again. Then I lean back, room in view. No shadow or any indication in the part of the bedroom visible to me. Just white, blank ceiling.

While my eyes continue to watch, I stray mentally. Mie came into the kitchen as I was working with the pigeons and cleaning the feces from the boards. I only saw the rough silhouette of her head. Can’t even say whether she saw me at all. Come on, of course. She has to have looked out into the fucking garden at least once while she was in the kitchen. Even if it was by accident. I nodded to her. Briefly. Not too friendly. Didn’t want to give her the feeling she should come out now and we’d chat while I scrubbed the shit off the wooden roosts. I hadn’t treated her very well when my father showed up with her and she moved in with us. I mean, I didn’t do anything bad. I just acted like she was invisible, which isn’t hard to do with her, because she already acts pretty much like a ghost. But I don’t know, maybe that was unfair. Maybe not, either, but that’s how it was.

My eyelids are gradually becoming heavy. The light’s still on. I don’t want to, but I wonder what she’s doing right now. If she’s doing anything at all. Who knows if she didn’t already fall asleep hours ago. She always was so tired after shooting up. At least the couple of times I was along for it. When I didn’t go, not wanting to leave her alone for a week till she came around by herself.

I’m tired. Exhausted. Axel and I mostly avoided crossing paths in the gym. I know he won’t do it, but somehow I expect him to bring up the thing at Timpen. Explain himself and what he was thinking. He won’t do it. I still don’t have the right words. Can’t do it without preparation, otherwise I’ll go down without a whimper. I couldn’t care less. But I do. I want for it to work. I want what he held out for me, even promised formally.

I nod off in the driver’s seat.

Match against Karlruher SC. They were actually still in the Bundesliga then, like Hannover. You almost can’t imagine that today. But they do sort of belong there somehow. Unlike Cottbus, especially, who were also in the top league then. 96 may have been meandering through the season, but we all agreed that regardless of where they ended up, the main thing was that Cottbus was below them. Even if that meant the Reds got relegated to the next league, coming in second to last. Fucking irrelevant if Cottbus came in last.

It’s one of those things about seats in the stadium and affiliation. Generally. Sure, everyone has a seat number that’s indicated on their ticket. Even in the North Curve, where the ultras own the stands. The oldest ultra groups are in the upper tiers. The younger groups are down below. Which is also probably some hierarchy thing. So the established groups can look down on the young mob. But we wouldn’t have given a rat’s ass anyway. Contrary to the so-called journalism produced by the media that always wants to lump us together with the ultras. What do they know?