Philipp Winkler - Hooligan

I hold out my hand to help him climb down from the table, but he ignores it and climbs down on his own, groaning. We inspect the ceiling. Looks like before. I need to take a seat.

“December 18th,” he says, and crosses his hands like a boss, cracking his neck, left and right.

“Braunschweig,” I say, taking his pass. He nods and says, “Exactly. The preparations are already underway. As soon as the police measures are available. My friend at the station will let me know.”

“Preparations?” I ask, sitting up on the edge of the chair. I can hardly conceal my curiosity.

“This is the big show, Heiko. The chance for revenge. And the chance to finally put Hannover on the map. Even more important after our defeat in Frankfurt. And after your… unfortunate stunt.”

He doesn’t blink. Watches my reaction very carefully. I don’t let anything show.

“Who knows when a chance like this will present itself again. We have to take advantage.” He clenches a fist and again looks like a greasy neo-Nazi politician raging against the foreigners stealing our jobs and wanting to fuck our women. “We have to do something really big. Completely in keeping with tradition.”

He takes on a dreamy look, which on Axel seems more like mental illness.

“What are you thinking of?” I ask, making an effort to sound neutral, as if I didn’t care about all that and my interest was only slightly aroused.

“Match on the day of the game. Not far from the stadium, preferably. Like it used to be. Before cameras, directional microphones, and surveillance systems were installed. It can’t be in the stadium itself, we shouldn’t kid ourselves. But beyond the immediate police radar. Somewhere in the city center.”

“How about the Ihme complex?” I blurt out.

He points his sausage-sized index finger at me, smiles, and says, “That’s my nephew. That’s why I haven’t chucked him on his ear. When you have ideas, Heiko. You’re a visionary. Just like your uncle. I’ll suggest that right away.”

“What do you mean, suggest? To who?”

He leans back. His gaze has drifted off away from me and through the room. He rocks back and forth on his chair.

“I’m expecting visitors soon. They should show up here any minute. Sent Tomek to pick them up and lead them here.”

On command, someone knocks on the door. Axel grins. He straightens his T-shirt and clears his throat.

“Come in,” he says.

Tomek comes into the office. He’s followed by four thick-necked, wide-shouldered guys. They smile as if they’d just shared a joke in the hallway and it was still being digested. Two of them are wearing Stone Island canvas jackets. Another a washed-out Lonsdale jacket. The last one, with a severe blond part, has a hoodie with old German script on it. Axel rises and shakes hands with each of them, saying: “Gentlemen. Nice that you were able to arrange it.”

“It’s an important occasion,” says the guy with the part. From the roots, I can see the hair is just dyed. A fucking fake Aryan. The only thing missing is he’s not wearing blue contact lenses.

“Heiko, make some space,” Axel says.

I get up and give one of them my chair. He grins at me as if I’d had a big fat booger hanging from my nose that he doesn’t want to draw to my attention out of consideration. He slips past me, almost touching. He stinks from his mouth like a polecat’s ass.

“Is that him?” he asks one of the others and nods in my direction.

Confusion. I look at my uncle, who once again clears his throat.

“That’s him.”

All eyes are fixed on me and scan me from head to toe.

“And the other one?” the stinking mouth says and lights a cigarette without asking.

Axel looks at him, grinding his teeth. I can see it churning inside him and he’d like to bash his face in for it. And I hope he does. But Axel quickly opens a desk drawer and pulls out a glass ashtray he deposits in from of him. The others immediately start to puff, filling the small office with smoke in no time.

“The other one is in the hospital,” Axel says and I think I noticed him darting a glance at me.

They grunt. It’s what it would sound like if pigs could laugh.

“Then let’s not waste any time wrapping up this deal so we can finally return to Braunschweig,” says the guy who’s sitting in my spot and adjusting his Stone Island jacket like a business suit.

“Heiko. Please,” Axel says and makes a slow hand motion, as if we were here in the Sports Center broadcast studio and he’s moderating the transition to the next guest.

“What?” I ask.

“Apologize.”

My stomach contracts, as if anticipating a punch to the pit of my gut.

I ask what I should apologize for.

My uncle groans, says, “You know what for. Come on.”

I don’t say anything. I just look at him. My arms stiffen into ice picks at the sides of my body and prevent any further blood flow to my fists. The guys from Braunschweig are waiting. They have patience now, the stupid puddles of piss. Axel pushes off his chair, grabs me by the arm, and turns to his shitty guests, saying, “Excuse us for a sec.”

He closes the door behind us. I hear them grunting with laughter. Axel pushes me against the office door. He’s almost touching the tip of his nose to mine in an Eskimo kiss.

“You’re gonna apologize right now for your attack on one of their people.”

“I’m not doing shit.”

“Heiko, listen up for a sec.” His breath smells limy. Probably rubbed some leftover coke onto his gums. “I don’t give a shit if you mean it, but you’re going in there right now and saying you’re sorry. So that we can proceed.”

“What they did to Kai—”

“What they did, what they did,” he mimics, hissing at me, “doesn’t interest me one damn bit! If I tell you to, you do it!”

He shoves me against the door and scoots me aside. Then he pushes me into the room, walks past, and sits down in his manager’s chair. Everyone has turned around. Tomek is standing between them like something foreign. He looks at me. In commiseration. But with rage in his eyes. I can see clearly that he dislikes the taste of this as much as I do. I’d like to yell at him that he should grab the knife from the drawer and throw it to me so I can put an end to these dirty fuckers. Maybe they were in Leipzig. Beating and kicking Kai. Made him half-blind. The image of ripping open their throats with the rough side of the knife sends a pleasant, warm feeling down my spine. Axel stares at me. His neck muscles are tense, making him look like wires have been run beneath his skin.

I say it. I actually say it. Say, “Sorry.” And I’ve never hated myself more than in that brief moment. Like a dirty traitor. One like my uncle. A dirty, hypocritical, fucking traitor. I haven’t even completely finished saying the word when I push open the door and escape to the hallway. I run to the toilets. Have the feeling I need to barf. Simply vomit everything out. Only sour bile comes up, and I pant and scream into the bowl so my own gagging is thrown back into my ears by the porcelain.

Relegation to the second league. One of the most infamous games in our history. Uncle Axel had gotten our mothers’ permission to bring Kai and me along, saying he’d take good care of us and nothing would happen.

We two twerps, wearing our 96 scarves, were standing among the men in the away side’s section. The songs roared around us, and the fans threw their fists in the air, and we jumped around on the perimeter fence like we were on fire. Things were going on like in a wave pool, and the sluggish masses of Hannover fans repeatedly washed against the lateral fences separating us from the other spectators. Monkey sounds rang out across the field of play. Every time our players Addo and Asamoah had the ball. I asked my uncle why they did that, and he said because they were Negros, and I didn’t have the slightest notion what that meant. And I jumped on the fence, Kai along with me, and we hoped our curses reached the Cottbus fan section. No one was allowed to insult Otto and Gerald. Regardless of how! They were our best. Playmakers and goal getters. Assured Hannover’s offensive attack. But we weren’t loud enough. Our flat boyish voices drowned out in our own crowd’s yells. A wall of faceless policemen behind heavy riot helmets set up in front of us, but we didn’t care. Even back then, I’d learned there’s no backing down. Even when the first beer cups filled with gravel flew into our section and a couple people next to us hit the ground, bleeding. Here in the Cottbus Stadium of Friendship, you get stones and shit thrown at you. Axel, Tomek, and Hinkel formed a circle around us. Protected us from the projectiles next to the fence. I tried to look through their bodies. Those hit were helped up. Got something to drink. They wiped the blood away or held tissues to the gaping wounds till the fabric itself stuck to them and their hands were freed to beat their fists in the air.