Philipp Winkler - Hooligan

“I have my own life, Dad! I want to make something of myself,” I heard Manuela’s squeaky voice protesting from her room. Then a wardrobe door was slammed shut.

“Sure, great, the lady wants to have a career! And what about me? You’ll leave me behind!”

I rolled my eyes and shook my head. Hans came back out, yelling loudly into the hallway, “Fucking hell!” and stopped in front of me. Little bubbles of spittle had caught on his porn stache.

“And you? What are you doing sitting here and staring around?”

Before I could think of a good answer, he turns on his heel and whips open Manuela’s door, disappearing behind it.

“Dad, would you leave me alone for once? I’ll be back in a couple days already.”

“The hell you will, young lady. You don’t need to think that you’re welcome back here!”

In the corner of my eye, I saw something move and when I looked over, I was barely able to recognize Mie scampering into the kitchen and quietly pulling the door closed.

“Stupid slit-eye slut,” I mumbled and in that very moment I meant it that way, because I couldn’t stand the intruder. And I only said the thing with the slit-eyed slut to make the insult more powerful. I would never have said it to her face, or whoever. At least I hope.

“Could you knock it off once and for all!” Manuela screeched.

“Then take your shit out of your bag and stay here!”

Then my sister’d had enough. “Why? So that I can keep playing the role of the cheap cleaning lady?! You have Mie for that now!”

The unmistakable sound of a loud slap echoed across the tall walls of the hallway. Accompanied by a muffled scream. I was immediately on my feet, ran over, and pushed the door open. I only needed a fraction of a second to register that Manuela, holding her hands in front of her face, was lying with her upper body sprawled over her bed. I ran inside and pushed both hands against Hans’s back. His head whipped back. He wasn’t ready for it and completely lost his balance. He fell over, stumbling over Manuela’s desk, and slammed into the table, which broke in the middle. Our father groaned and grabbed his head.

He looked at me and whispered, “You little piece of shit.”

I stood up, taking a wide stance, clenching my fists, and waiting. I’d already caught up to him physically. What little he had on me had already dissipated after he’d gone on disability and even more with the hardcore boozing, and I’d quickly made progress because I had my uncle as the best example of what you can get done with a little power.

“Come on,” I said to Manuela. “Let’s wait for your taxi outside. I’ll get your suitcase.”

I took her hand and pulled her up. She wiped the tears from her cheekbones and fled past me, out of the room. I kept an eye on Hans and grabbed the suitcase. He just looked at me sulkily but didn’t get up. If he’d wanted to, he surely could’ve still beat me up. But he didn’t make the effort. At all. Except when it came to blowing his disability check at the bar. Walking backwards, I pulled the suitcase out of the room. Hans wiped the spots of enraged spittle from his mustache with the collar of his work sweater that bore the logo of his former employer. I turned around once I was sure he wouldn’t jump up and grab my throat from behind. I still remember that I slammed a fist against the kitchen door in passing. Probably scared Mie half to death. Was in the heat of the moment, I guess. Manuela sat on the stoop before the front door and was blowing her nose. I dropped the suitcase and sat next to her and stared at the cobblestones.

“Thanks, Heiko,” she said and tried to regain her composure.

I nodded and said, “Have fun at college.”

Then the taxi came. The driver got out and stowed the suitcase in the trunk of his cream-colored car. I was glad Hans stayed inside and didn’t come outside and make another scene. I raised my hand, said, see you soon, or something like that, but Manuela came over and hugged me. I don’t know why, but somehow I sank into the embrace of my older sister. She pressed herself against me, and I felt her cheek on my shoulder. Her warm breath against the 96 logo of my jersey with the name Dworschak and the number 22 on the back. My gaze connected with that of the taxi driver, who leaned against the driver-side door with arms crossed and waited for our farewell to end. I didn’t care if he saw me like that. Some stranger.

Then something slipped out of me: “I miss Mom too.”

Manuela pushed me away, looked at me aghast, as if I’d just held out a dead rat.

She said, “What? No. I didn’t mean that at all!”

Then the taxi driver looked away because it was none of his business. He climbed inside. Manuela opened the door, but then came back after all. I must have been standing there like a fucking idiot.

“Heiko, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to—”

She didn’t finish the sentence, looking past me. I turned around. The light in the hallway was on. And when I turned back toward her, she climbed into the taxi and waved. Then she drove off. Left me all alone. In the driveway. In this house with the cold, dark hallway. With the door to my room that I always locked, never left open. With Mie. And with our father.

Kai didn’t have to beg me very long to join in the celebration, and I agreed to go clubbing with him. Even though I’d hoped a little that he’d take it easy at first. After all, he’s still pretty worse for the wear, but of course that wasn’t even a question for Kai. Goes whole hog. I wasn’t allowed to help him with anything. For example, climbing stairs or getting up. Even though he pressed his lips together and held his breath in pain, he wouldn’t accept help at all. He walked like he was walking on eggshells, and as if his upper legs had been replaced by tree trunks. But who cares, if one evening going out and drinking eases all that, then I’m definitely for it.

“I can ask if they have a bag for you here,” I say. We sidle up to the bar and I order two beers. “We’ll just cut out two holes for your eyes and that’ll do.”

He laughs derisively and says, “True beauty cannot be tarnished, dude.”

He adjusts the bandage across the bridge of his nose. His battered face still has the color mixture of a fruit basket. The Band-Aids and the bandages don’t make it much better, even if they cover the bulk of his face. He looks like he’s escaped from a horror film, and I tell him he shouldn’t get his hopes up too much he’ll find something to screw right away, and that, first and foremost, today we’re raising our glasses to the beginning of his recovery and his speedy return to the field.

“Ulf sends his greetings,” he mentions in passing, and lifts his glass of beer to his mouth with a slight tremor.

The bass beats of a Eurodance mix boom across the dance floor, still sparsely occupied behind us.

I say, “Hmm,” while the first sip is still running down my throat. I put it down, lick the suds from my upper lip, and ask when he saw him.

“He called this afternoon. They’re in Cuxhaven for a couple days. Wanted to hear if my face was slowly growing together.”

Kai turns around, leaning against the bar with his elbows, and briefly closes his eyes in pain. I also lean back, and together we watch the dancing dots of light on the waxed dance floor.

“You still hurt all over?” I ask without looking at him.

“Mhmmm,” he hums in confirmation, “compressions, contusion. Busted rib. At some point I stopped listening.”

He squints, looking at his glass from above and clucks, “Whatever. How was the match?”

I tell him about the Frankfurt tour. That the two skins from Langenhagen went along but didn’t cause any trouble. That we may have had to concede a clear defeat, but nothing else was in the bag. And that I’m thinking of getting a pair of hiking boots with tread for rainy weather and wet footing, so I don’t slip all the time and fall on my face.