Philipp Winkler - Hooligan

“When did you intend to tell me? Since when has the match been planned?” I ask.

“I’m telling you now ,” emphasizing the word “now.” “That’s got to be good enough for you. I really had to bend over backwards to even round up eight men. Do you actually know how stupid I’d look if I had to call off the Frankfurt match again?”

I want to rub my face because it’s itching unpleasantly, but I keep my hands still. Someone knocks on the door. The hint of a smile flits over Axel’s otherwise chiseled stone mouth.

“We’re done here. You’ll be waiting here at ten in the morning the day after tomorrow. Come in.”

I get up. A woman with blond hair and brunette roots enters the office. She has a bulky leather bag and underneath her matching leather jacket she’s wearing a halter top. Accompanied by skin-tight pants.

“Lock up behind yourself,” Axel says.

I’m briefly irritated. Turn around. Then I see he’d been speaking to the broad. She stood still, wrinkling her nose at the sight of me. Or perhaps my smell. She waits for me to leave the room. Then the professional closes the door behind me and turns the key. I go into the locker-room, change clothes, and pull my MP3 player from my locker. I pound the punching bags for an hour without taking a break for a drink. Then I go under the showers, lock the door with my key from the inside, let myself soak, and hope that past days and weeks wash off me and everything is like it used to be when I come back out. Bullshit.

Two days later I’m back in the space behind the gym, waiting like the others for Axel to give the sign to go. The usual suspects, like Tomek, Töller, and Hinkel, are there. And—I can hardly believe my eyes—two of the Nazis we kicked out of Timpen. I stay away from the group and smoke, but the skins keep their distance too. Just glance at me occasionally. Don’t want blow it with my uncle by starting something with me again. Too bad. I gave up trying to reach Jojo. He texted: “Sorry. Can’t pick up now. On way to practice. Best, jojo.”

Instead of writing back something like why the fuck I’m left hanging, I write Kai a message: “How are you feeling today? When I get back from FFM I’ll tell u how it was. PS not even Jojo’s along. really promising…”

Uncle Axel comes out wearing jogging pants and a sweater. He locks the gym door and say, “Let’s go, men!”

He’d gotten some new vehicles, and we spread out into two groups of four. I get shotgun next to Hinkel. Tomek and Töller are on the seat in back. No trace of anticipation inside me. I can only hope the adrenaline starts pumping soon because otherwise I’ll jump out of the car while it’s going full speed.

The three are talking some pointless shit. I don’t participate in the conversation. Just look out the window and pick at the rubber seal around the glass. The autobahn’s endless dark green noise barriers obscure the view of the landscape. If someone asks me something, I answer in monosyllables. Say yes. Say no. Say don’t know.

“Can you give me something from the toiletries bag?” Hinkel asks me at some point.

I take his bag out of the glove compartment and open the zipper.

“Waddaya want?” I ask and poke around in it. The bag has an old man smell and is full of strips of tablet blister packs.

“One of the big yellow ones and a little white one.” I press the pills out of the packaging and into Hinkel’s palm, which he’s holding out in my direction. He tosses them back, grabs for the water bottle in the middle console and washes them down. I pack the toiletry bag back away.

“What’re they for?” I ask, more out of boredom than true interest.

“For my old pumper. So that I don’t collapse behind the wheel,” Hinkel says and starts to laugh, which ends with him hacking into his fist and having to take a sip of water. His face is red as a beet. Probably almost choked, the way he looks. He pounds his chest. His eyes are bugging out. Shiny and watery. He stops coughing, wheezes, and says, “Man, man, man.”

I play with the lever that adjusts the side mirror. I use it to watch Töller and Tomek, one after the other. Töller’s sunken cheeks that don’t quite fit with his fairly muscular body. Broad, dark rings under his eyes. Tomek’s Adam’s apple bobs up and down with every breath. As if he needs to swallow air instead of breathing it. His mouth stays open, and I can hear his panting all the way from where I’m sitting. His ears are scrunched down to little cauliflower buds. I think how the long scar on the edge of his right cheek sticks out in particular, and it looks like someone’s taken a buzz saw to his face. I immediately feel really sick and weak and imagine how somehow we’re all just old stock bulls in an animal transport, on their way to some kind of animal sanctuary before we cross the Jordan in a couple weeks or days.

We meet outside Darmstadt on a race track for remote-control cars. I’m totally zoned out. Clueless, I climb out of the car like anyone else. Shove the mouth guard into my mouth and check out the opponents. It’s like back in the day. Axel meets with the leader to the Frankfurt group. They briefly discuss the procedures, and the rest of us get ready. At least I can forget everything else for the few minutes that the match lasts. It rains without interruption, and the miniature track is fucking slick and makes us slide into each other like huge Godzilla monsters. We go down in flames. I’m able to take down a guy from Frankfurt but slip and catch a knee to the head. In the end, Axel and Tomek are the only ones on our side left standing, even though our opponents are able to keep at least five people on their feet. I inspect myself in a side mirror. There’s already a large bump from the knee forming on my head. On the skin above my cheekbone, but the rain immediately washed away all the blood from my face. My forearms and the heels of my hands are scraped, and my pants are ripped at the knees. The bare lower layer of skin shimmers red through the holes. I need better protection in rainy weather. Despite everything. Despite the defeat. Despite the ride back before us and the bad-tempered thoughts of what you could have done better. And despite my burning knee. Despite everything, I feel significantly better than after my half-hour shower at the gym.

It’d been that way all day. Actually the whole week. The closer Manuela’s moving day came. And now the time had simply come. She was supposed to start studying to become a teacher at the university in Göttingen. I’d even come along once when she was looking for an apartment. Just to get out of the house.

Hans yelled at Manuela that she could just commute. That she didn’t have to move away. She could always take the train to the university. About a month ago she’d worked out the math for him, that it was complete bullshit, and how she’d have to get up before six every morning to get to class on time. But he hadn’t been listening at all again, said it was pure chicanery, whatever he meant by that, and slammed her bedroom door behind him, mumbling to himself as he went past me. Barged into me. Pulled on his jacket. Opened the front door so he could finally go to the Olle Deele dive bar, but then immediately closed it again. Took off his jacket and tossed it in the darkest corner of the hallway and marched back into Manuela’s room.

“Dad, I’ll come every weekend to visit, if I can!”

“Sure, to visit your friends. Might as well stay over at their place, too! Don’t need to show up around here anymore.”

She started crying again. I was sitting in my doorway, Indian style, ball between my legs, and listening to the two of them. I’d probably be way too late to kick around. The others had probably been waiting for me for ages in Luthe, but I couldn’t just up and leave now. I flicked boogers and must have retied my cleats ten times. Each time a little tighter. Then I loosened the laces and tied them again, this time a little less tight. Earlier, I’d thought it was halfway funny the way Hans got upset and screamed. He did it all the time. But normally things settled down once he’d finally gone off to his local dive bar again.