Philipp Winkler - Hooligan

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. “Goddamn 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.