Philipp Winkler - Hooligan

Jojo had started a couple years ago. It was back when he was going through a really rough time. After the thing with Joel, which was hell for all of us. But that Jojo’s father would really fuck things up a couple months later, truly no one could have seen that coming. We were already afraid we wouldn’t ever be able to get Jojo out of his deep hole. No one wanted to leave him alone, and we divided up shifts. Then, on some random day, Jojo got up, finally took a shower, and went to the practice field in Luthe. Not a word to anyone. And would you look at that, co-trainer of the under-fifteen U15 development team. That had gotten him on track again. Even to the extent he went back to his old boss at the retirement home and apologized for drinking on the job. And once again, look at that, Jojo had his janitor’s job back.

“I thought to myself, I’ll change a couple things. Regarding the practice program. Do things different than Gerti did,” circling the top of his beer can with his fingertip, “maybe integrate a couple of things we practiced with Joel, back when. I was meaning to ask you. Maybe you have the sketches we made back then. You remember? With the drills on them and all that.”

I nod to myself and sigh. My gaze repeatedly drifts down to the surface of the table.

“It’s been an eternity. Not sure I have them with my stuff anymore.”

“Yeah, not here, but maybe back at your dad’s place.”

“Jojo, hey, seriously…” My mouth tastes like Styrofoam again.

“Yeah, just check the next time you’re there.”

He thanks me and drinks. A stream of beer misses his mouth and flows through his stubble and over his chin. He wipes at it with the sleeve of Joel’s old Hannover 96 warm-up jacket. Only then does he realize what he’d just done.

“Well, shit,” he mumbles and tries to rub the tiny beer spot dry with his bare hand. I kill my can and slam it on the table.

“Well, I’m so fucking tired. Think I’m gonna hit the hay now.”

Jojo downed what was left and ground out his burned-down cigarette, which he’d forgotten in the ashtray.

“I’ll head off then,” he said.

We hugged, patting each other on the back. We don’t actually do hugs, but for some odd reason we’re in sync in the exact same moment, making it an honest hug and no embarrassed spreading of arms and leaning back and forth and end up just shaking hands.

We go to the door. I wanted to turn the porch light on, but nothing happened. I yell over to the kitchen that the damn outside light is already broken again and hold the door open for Jojo. The bell rings and riles up the dogs again. In the kitchen Arnim yells I should shut my trap.

“And congrats again,” I say and hold open the porch door, ’cause it’d bang shut otherwise.

“Come over to practice sometime or something. I haven’t told Ulf and Kai yet. And,” he balls up his fist, “awesome how you guys smashed Cologne.”

Jojo climbed into the Volvo, turned around, and putted down the drive. I raise my hand in parting. Then the car disappears behind the birches and willows arching over the driveway.

I get another beer from the kitchen. Arnim’s chin is resting a couple inches above his paunch and trembling from the snoring. I take the rifle with me, placing it on the sofa on my way upstairs, and grab my duffel bag. The stairs creak like the bones of an old man.

As I walk through the dark hallway, I hear wings beating behind the first door on the left. It sounds dry. Like sandpaper rubbed together. The pungent smell of bird crap is pervasive. I unlock my room. The piece of hard rubber stapled at the bottom of my door scrapes over the old wooden flooring. I have to use my knee just under the lock to push the door shut. Then I turn on the light. Duffel bag to the corner. Open the beer. There’s still a pack of cigs on the table. I stay standing in the middle of the room for a moment. Alternate between drinking and taking a drag. Feel my body. Feels like it’s been wrung out. Has been, actually. I smile to myself, contented, then the pain shoots through my jaw again, and I dim it with more beer. Already half-empty again. Only now do I notice I haven’t eaten anything since this morning. Was too nervous. While standing, I take off my shoes with some effort. Then I undress completely. My clothes make a small pile among many in the room. Need to go to the laundromat again. Fuck it, turning it inside-out works, too. My real phone is still on the power cord attached to the outlet next to the door. I pull it out. It sparks, but it doesn’t catch me. Three messages, five missed calls. All five over the course of the day. All of them from Manuela. Then a MMS from Kai, which makes me laugh. He took a selfie, shirtless and thumbs up. Behind him there’s some bimbo, legs together and bent over on the bedspread, pointing her naked ass toward him. Her head can’t be seen. Behind it I recognize Kai’s bedroom.

“That was fast,” I write, “new record?”

A text from Uncle Axel: “Good job. See you at work.” I don’t write back. The third message is from Manuela. Sent a couple hours ago: “Heiko, where are you at?? Please call me back, but not so late. We go to bed around 10. It’s about dad. Finally were able to get a spot in rehab. Hugs and kisses, your big sister. PS. Greetings from Andreas.”

Of course, her retard fucktard husband sends his regards. I read the text again and press my thumb to the power button until the screen goes black.

I stand in the bathroom and study myself in the mirror. My face is distorted by the cracks in the glass, and I have to concentrate to fit the pieces in my head like in a puzzle. Otherwise I look like a mutant or something. But I’m not too far from that either. The left side of my face is a little swollen on the cheek and glimmers red to purple. On my mouth, there are two globs of congealed blood, which I leave where they are. Got off okay this time.

Even the collarbone appears to be okay. Though it may hurt like hell now, that’ll be gone in two or three days, max. I rest the beer on the lip of the sink. Next to it, some damp dust rolls into something that looks like a delicate gray maggot. I hold my hands up in front of me, turning and examining them directly and in the reflection. Blood has collected under the skin on all the joints and who knows where else. There’s a remnant of blood I must have missed at the sink in the rest stop toilet. Not my blood. Here and there scratches, with dirt in the furrows. I look at myself again. Not the mutant reflection, but rather the composite, true puzzle-me. As I’m standing here in the flickering light, surrounded by tiles that don’t even look white by day anymore.

“Good job,” I repeat, and try to look myself in the eye, as if there was a real person standing behind the mirror, someone who should be praised.

I climb into the shower. A family of silverfish scurries into the cracks between the tiles.

Damp footprints follow me into my room. I lock the door, slip into some boxers, which immediately absorb the shower water I hadn’t dried off, and lie down on the mattress. The water covers my stubbly hair like a blanket of mist and cools my scalp. I cross my arms behind my head. Close my eyes. I think about Yvonne. About her pretty face and her eyebrows, which are as free as a cloudless sky.

It was after the match between the under-23 reserve teams of Hannover and Braunschweig. I think people still called them amateurs or second-string back then, though it wasn’t very long ago at all. Today the team is officially called the U23. That was in Eilenriede Stadium’s good old curves. Normally, I can’t take the ultras seriously. They get so excited they piss in their pants, but you have to give it to them, they really fired up the old cauldron that day.