Philipp Winkler - Hooligan

It was the same with our allotted spots. Also because of hierarchy. So we were standing behind the fans in the North Curve stands, in the corridor behind the upper tiers. Axel, Tomek, and the other full members stood in the middle behind them. As young guns, we were a little farther back. Basically in the middle of the corridor with people on their way to the toilet, or the stands for food or beer, or returning. We don’t go to the stadium very often. It’s just not a place for our type. We move in other circles, but once in a while you just have to show up. Show that we’re still here. In other words, for the ones that recognize us, which is just a fraction of the usual stadium-goers.

“But this is bullshit, man,” Jojo complained. “Can’t see anything from here. Karlsruhe nailed the penalty kick, right?”

“Jojo, would you get off my back? Right here is just our place.”

“Yeah, they made it from the mark,” said Ulf. At almost six foot six, he’s always able to see more.

Kai pokes me and leans his head over and says: “Here they come again.”

Plainclothes cops. Walking by for the second or third time. Axel and the old boys pointedly turned their backs to the cops walking by.

Kai stepped out from our group, started to curtsy, and grinned, saying: “G’day, dear sirs.”

The cops move on, looking offended. No clue who they thought they were fooling with the show. Hastily pulling jerseys over their ironed shirts, still sticking out a little. Throwing scarves around their necks, like lipstick on pigs. And then clutching the alibi beer, which they can’t even touch because they’re on duty. Touch with their mouths, I mean. The piss they serve in the stadium couldn’t get much flatter.

I told him, “You’d better be glad Axel didn’t see that. You know what he thinks about making a scene.”

Kai raised his hands in defense, pursed his lips, and said, “Oh, dangerous, super dangerous.”

“Oh, cut the crap.” I took a go at him but couldn’t hold back a grin.

Then a group of ultras came up from the stands, probably just wanted to piss, and looked like they’d just come from the black bloc of disrepute. They walked past us and scanned us from head to toe.

I heard one of them say something like, “What kind of jokers are these?” Then the little fucker giggled.

Kai’s mood flipped immediately. “Did you hear what that little shit just said?”

“Well?” I asked casually and tried to get a glimpse of the game, but people were constantly getting in the way.

“Didn’t even know who we were. They don’t have hair on their nads yet, those dickheads.”

Jojo, who was still grumbling to himself in irritation and had ignored the ultras, said, “For real, Heiko, I laid out twenty bucks for the ticket and can’t see a thing. It’s fucking pointless. We could just as well have watched the game in the comfort of Timpen. Besides, the draft back here is murder. Could you ask your uncle if we can join them up front?”

I exhaled my annoyance and said, “You know how it works. This is our spot.”

I pointed to the floor between us and looked at the group, which wasn’t just the four of us but also a couple other young guns from back when. They’ve all left us by now.

“We just have to earn the spot over there. What do you wanna do?”

He looked at me. His tongue moved inside his cheek impatiently, back and forth.

“My god, then all right, I’ll ask. Just knock it off.”

“Excellent, Heiko, thanks,” Jojo said.

I looked over at the group that had gathered around my uncle. It reminded me of the days when I was still a little twerp and my father brought me along every now and then. Back then it was exactly the same, except I was standing around with Hans somewhere instead of with the boys now, while people were gathered around Axel as if he was some kind of tiny solar system that only existed in the Curve. I looked at Jojo again and said, “Won’t accomplish a thing.”

And I was right, of course. I had barely stepped up to the group surrounding Axel and Tomek when my uncle snarled at me, wanting to know what I wanted. I tried to somehow acquaint him with the concept that we couldn’t see anything and all that shit.

“Go back to your spot,” Axel barked.

When I got back to the boys, Jojo asked, “Well?”

“Shove it, Jojo,” I said and drained my beer in silence.

“Manuela, please don’t bust my balls. I’ll find him already! Yeah. Sure, bye.”

I chuck my phone on the passenger seat. It bounces off like a rubber ball and lands on the floor.

My father’s caregiver wasn’t able to give me any useful clues about where he might be when I’d spoke with her. Just said he must have disappeared sometime around lunch and moans something like, It’s so awful, we’ve never had anything like this happen before. Thanks, a lotta help you are, you old hag, I thought and turned the key. Then my sister had to bitch me out. As if it was my fault he wanted to step out of the rehab clinic. I mean, here I am, and all this craps lands on me, typical. She couldn’t leave. Because of classes, and all that.

The car’s running, and I’m steering from the clinic parking lot onto the street. Trying to make my way to the middle of town.

It’s windy. I pull the zipper up on my windbreaker. Then I shove my fists into my jacket pockets and walk randomly down an unfamiliar street. Hans doesn’t have a phone. Even though Manuela bought him one once, as far as I know he never used it. My dad’s just old-school. Real old-school.

I arrive at a square paved with cobblestones, a kind of a market square. Maybe it’s the middle of town. Clueless, making the rounds. Mostly there are pensioners sitting outside in front of the cafés, holding down their napkins against the wind. Deep, snow-white tumors of clouds stream over the rooftops. The aroma of fresh cake and pastries seems to emanate from everywhere. It’s making me slightly nauseous. That and how perfectly arranged everything is here. Like a typical spa town. The old farts watch me walk by, mouths agape. Probably asking themselves what kind of shady customer I am, decked out in a black jogging suit. And in a place like this, I truly do feel as out of place as a right-wing extremist at a gypsy wedding. I go down a narrow, one-lane shopping street leading away from the square. A couple of teenagers are sitting in front of the supermarket and sucking energy drinks. They’re laughing, kidding around. Calling each other “son of a bitch” and that sort of thing. Acting like they’re Turkish or something. Even though they’re just stupid nobodies. I walk past the driveway to the parking lot belonging to the supermarket, which is located behind the row of residential buildings. A ruined, elderly guy with a gray flowing beard is sitting against the wall. His facial hair has taken on the typical color of tobacco-yellow above the lip. He’s wearing a dirty sweater that basically screams the 90s. A gray threadbare denim vest on top of that. His blue cap, which he wears loosely over a wide mop of hair, has attained a kind of batik pattern from years of sweat. The cap is labeled MODERN DRUNKARD – EST. 1986. I approach him and he looks up at me with a tired gaze. The bags under his eyes look like washrags.

“Hey pal. Maybe you have a little spare change?”

I pull out my wallet, say, “Sure,” and give him a two-euro coin.

He holds it up for a second, depositing it in his breast pocket of his vest and says, “The company expresses its gratitude.”

I crouch down next to him, silently offering him a cigarette, which he also raises in thanks. Then I pass him my lighter, but just for him to give back to me. He offers his hand. His fingers are rough and rutted like the bark of an oak tree. The fingertips have long gone beyond tobacco yellow to take on the color of morning urine.