Philipp Winkler - Hooligan

“You actually know what you’re saying? You want to end up like Kai?”

He points to Kai. I look over. His head is dangling from his neck. He doesn’t say anything.

“Have you given a little, even the slightest thought to how all this might end?”

I take a step toward him, leaving only a finger’s breadth between our faces.

“I. Don’t. Give. A. Shit,” I spit out and step back a little. “You have your family, your house, your white fucking picket fence. You all have something you can look forward to at the end of the day.” I can’t stop, even if it’d be better if I did. Instead, I keep on barking: “Jojo’s seeing this coaching thing through, and when Kai’s healthy again, he’ll finish his studies and get a well-paid job.” I don’t want to talk about them as if they weren’t there, but I’m just not able to hold back. “I’ve got nothing”—I form a circle with my fingers—“nothing. This here,” drawing a circle around all of us in the air, “is what I have. Nothing more. I don’t complain about it. And you know why? Because I live for this. Because I stand for it, and I admit it. If you don’t get that, then you’re a lost cause for me, Ulf. Then all of this, all those years were just a fucking game for you.”

I take Kai’s hand off my arm and guide it to Jojo, who stares at me, stunned, and takes Kai’s hand. I slam Ulf with my shoulder as I pass by. Of course he doesn’t move.

“You actually know how pathetic you are?” he calls after me.

I turn my upper body, flip him off, and scream, “Fuck you, Ulf, for real. Go fuck yourself!”

I still remember how I sat on Mom’s suitcase. Legs extended, I kicked the tips of my new football shoes against each other, and was already looking forward to showing them off to the others while kicking the ball around. The door separating the front door and the hallway was open. Mom maneuvered herself into her high heels. She even smiled. I’d come out of my room when she pulled the heavy suitcase behind her down the stairs and it bumped down every step. She didn’t answer my question about what she was doing. Where she was going. She just grinned at me. Held my head and gave me a kiss to my forehead that I wiped off, whining, “Mamaaaa,” in disgust. Then she walked past me. She smelled strongly of perfume and left a trail of flowery scent behind her like a bridal train. I followed her forward. Manuela stood in the open sitting room doorway and pressed against the frame. She had that ugly black neckband that was so tight around her neck and that all the girls were wearing back then. It made them look like their head was sewn onto their neck. Just like Frankenstein’s monster. She had her arm wrapped around her skinny upper body and was sulking. Pouting her lips. Today you’d probably call it a duckface. At the time, I didn’t understand why she was pouting. Was just a stupid little twerp.

I heard a car’s motor. Groaning, Mom carried the suitcase to the front door and opened it. Then she retrieved a second bag and set it next to the first. They were still open. Clothing stuck out of the top. She waved someone into the driveway. Probably the driver of the car. Then she came over to me, bent over with squeezed together, bare knees poking out from under her skirt. She hugged me. I absolutely didn’t know what to do about it, and so I let it wash over me.

With her voice—unusually deep and scratchy for a woman—she said, “Take it easy, little Heiko. Love you.”

She gave me another kiss to the forehead. I didn’t wipe it away. When she stood up, she glanced briefly at the glass cabinet next to the wall with her ugly figurines. She briefly considered it and said, “Oh, whatever.” Then she turned to Manuela, who looked at her grumpily. Before Mom had reached her, Manuela retreated to the sitting room and slammed the door, making me jump. Mom sighed. Then she smiled again and waved at me, although she walked past very close. A man was taking the bags from the stoop by the front door and carrying them to the car. She grabbed the door, waving once more. Threw me a kiss. Then she closed the door. I heard the car doors slam and the car drove off. I stood in the hallway and froze. I went into the sitting room. Manuela had kneeled down on the old armchair in front of the window and was looking out. It’d been her favorite chair when it was still Grandpa’s house. That’s always where he’d sat with his beer. Or with his cup of coffee, if it was early in the morning. I grabbed the remote control, threw myself on the sofa, and turned on my cartoon about a Japanese school football team. I liked the cool, long-haired adversary of the main character much more because he wasn’t so nice and kind. Never took any shit. From the grown-ups either. And because he could kick so hard. He always had the sleeves of his dark-blue jersey rolled up. I lounged around. Manuela briefly glanced over at me.

“You’re so stupid,” she said.

But I hadn’t done a thing. Hadn’t bugged her. Then she turned back toward the window. I didn’t understand a thing.

I rush down the stairs. Almost fall on my face. Then I knock open the screen door, which bangs against the outside of the house and hangs crooked because a hinge has come loose. The bell over the door rings hollow. I quickly reach up to muffle the sound.

“What are you doing here?” I call out as Manuela and Andreas are just climbing out of their car. They look at each other in astonishment, as if they’ve never seen such a run-down house in all their lives. Especially Andreas can hardy conceal his opinion and lifts his upper lip with such disgust, it’s as if Arnim’s house were a dead, rotting whale. You ain’t seen nothing, you bastard. I walk toward them. The gravel in front of the house keeps jabbing the soles of my bare feet. I ask them again what they’re here for, and my sister has difficulty prying her gaze from the weathered, mold-green wooden siding of the house.

“I thought I’d been completely clear when I said that no one can just show up here!”

Without looking at me, Andreas says, “We didn’t really choose to come here.”

He’s smartly tucked his ironed shirt with the fine, light-blue–checkered pattern into his beige pants. He plucks at the obviously extra-starched collar. Then his hair, formed with gel into an understated spiky peak, probably thinking it’s hip or something. Though he looks more like a child that’s been spiffed up for his church confirmation. Not to mention his condescending attitude. All of this disgusts me incredibly. I briefly consider asking them in and at least introducing Poborsky and Bigfoot. Give that fancy ape a taste of real life. Not the sheltered, well-heeled home he considers to be real life. But I can’t do that. Manuela would probably lose the last shimmer of understanding for me, and her husband would call the cops, guaranteed.

“I’ve been trying to reach you for days, Heiko,” says Manuela.

She closes the space between us and takes my hands into hers. There are bags like overripe fruit under the glasses she keeps on wearing even though she doesn’t need them. Her hairline is reddened. She tends to have eczema when she’s under stress. She had it frequently when we stilled lived at home.

“I turned off my phone,” I say, frankly.

“Can we come inside? I’d like to sit down.”

“That’s not possible,” I say because I can’t come up with a plausible excuse so fast, “you can’t come inside.”

“Why not?” Andreas asks and makes a face.

Because it stinks inside of animal blood and bird droppings. Because of chemical potions and tranquilizing darts. Because there are two fighting dogs and a fucking tiger living in the backyard. Because Arnim flips out if he comes home and sees strangers in his house.