Philipp Winkler - Hooligan

I was so busy drinking that I’d just taken one bite of the hotdog poking out of the roll like a fat, brown worm. But my dad was pulling me farther because the game was about to begin. I wanted to start whining because he’d grabbed me so roughly by the upper arm, but Uncle Axel rubbed my head with his hand. It seemed as big as an umbrella. He winked at me and took the Coke off my hands so I could eat in peace, and all together we went into the stadium. We were down at the bottom of the stands. Close to the fence separating us from the field, and my uncle had to put me on his shoulders for me to see anything. Dad was busy yelling at the official that it’d clearly been a foul, but I thought the whistle was blown ages ago and a free kick given. The Reds, that was our team. Hannover. And the Blues, from Meppen, our opponents. The free kick went in the direction of their goal, and all of the players had gathered in the box and were pushing each other and then the ball came and bounced through the rows and was headed here and there. Till it fell at the feet of the Reds’ number 5. He swiveled with the ball on his foot and shot. I jumped in shock because the completely filled stands behind us let out an ear-splitting yell, and I hopped up and down on my uncle’s shoulders, and my Dad bellowed his head off and screamed, “Yeah, Wojcicki! He plays till all their backs are against the wall!”

That stuck in my memory. That strange, magical name that sounded like something from another planet. I tried to silently form the name with my lips: Woit-chiky. Woy-chikki. I was so stuck on that name that I kept on getting on my uncle’s and dad’s nerves, asking when number 5 would get the ball again, and if he’d score another goal, and sometimes they found time for a curt answer between the yelling and thrusting their fists in the air and the beer drinking. But I just wanted to have them pronounce his name again. And again. Till I’d have the courage to say it right, because at some point I had the feeling that it’d lose its magic if I mispronounced it.

It took a while till the flaring celebration died down in our section. I’d joined in at some point and also called out “96!” but then the game and all the spectators above had calmed down, when a deep voice like a bass drum said, “Axel, you old salamander.” Axel turned around fast, and I whipped around too because I was sitting on his spacious but hard shoulders. A giant stood in front of us. He was even bigger than my uncle, and though Uncle Axel and I were standing on a step, the two of us just barely came up to the level of the giant. He had very dark, bushy eyebrows. Like thick building blocks. And a bald head that was a little pointy. This was accompanied by a puffy bomber jacket whose orange was so bright it almost pierced my eyes. Axel took me off his shoulders and told me I should go to my father. He was sitting in the row below us and trying to keep up with the rhythmic clapping of the other fans.

“Damn toothbrush,” my dad said and held me tight, pointing up at the floodlight pole that had just gone out.

But it was still bright enough that the game went on without it. And I anyway, I was much more interested in the scary, bright giant, and I kept secretly turning around to see him while my dad talked about the terrible electrical system and the like. Uncle Axel and the giant stood next to each other like two towers of a knight’s castle and looked into the distance and whispered something to each other, and even though I was a real man now because I was allowed into the stadium, I noticed that there was something beyond that, and the two of them were sharing a very special grown-up-man experience. They pointed their fingers straight over the field to the other end of the stadium, where tiny fans in blue could be seen. And when one of them pointed, the other nodded, and vice versa, and I really would’ve liked to know what it was about and wanted for them to let me in on their manly secrets. But the orange giant also sent a shiver up my spine, so I turned back around to Dad, and because I didn’t want to seem like I hadn’t been listening, I wanted to ask something. I don’t remember what. Something about why toothbrushes, because I couldn’t make the connection yet that a pole mounted with floodlights sometimes looks like a toothbrush. But my dad had turned around too and was looking at his big brother and his giant buddy, and his mouth moved slightly, as if he wanted to say something. Then he reached for his beer and spilled some on my shoes, but I didn’t say anything, that kind of thing happened among men. Sometimes beer gets spilled. And Dad took a sip and the suds stuck to his mustache and popped in tiny bubbles, and he wiped his sleeve over his mouth and called out, “Hey there, Dirk!”

But he didn’t get a reaction, so he called out again, this time just a little louder, and my uncle and the orange giant interrupted their secret exchange and looked down at us, and the giant nodded briefly but didn’t smile friendly, and then they continued whispering. Mom had tried to teach me that you should always have a friendly greeting, but when you’re that big, I thought, then you didn’t have to follow the rule. My dad turned back around and drained his beer in a long gulp. And then he looked at me and said, “Well, Heiko,” draping his arm around my shoulder and pulling me tighter, making me smell a little of armpit. “Wait a sec,” he said and pulled off his vest. He briefly held it in his arms like a baby, and then he swung it over my head and all I had to do was slip my arms through the holes. He looked at me and grinned, and then he said, “Yeah, Heiko. 96.” He pointed to the logo on my chest, “Sure is something.”

The fields behind Wunstorf go blurry under opaque patches of fog, becoming a watery gray soup. The surrounding villages no longer seemed to exist. I roll down the driver’s side window, and my whole arm thanks me with a stabbing pain that vibrates down to the tips of my nerves. Only now, as the cold places a stranglehold over my neck and cheeks, do I realize I’m about to bounce over the frozen path to Arnim’s house, and every little bump pushes into my spine.

The pickup in the driveway hasn’t moved an inch. Its windows, and those of the house, are covered with frost. Through the holes in the trees, only gray can be seen. The world has become still and smells of practically nothing. The bell rings when I open the front door. I jump, scare myself so bad a pinching pain shoots through the top of my skull. Nothing has changed, aside from the spiderwebs that have spread across the ravaged living room landscape and on which single little drops of condensation hang. It’s musty and damp in here. I climb the stairs. The creak of the steps echoes through the whole house. I feel dizzy. For days now. Maybe because I’ve been eating too little, hardly drinking. That’s why I support myself against the doorframe in front of Siegfried’s room and listen. Nothing. Something goes through my arm, wants to press the handle, but I don’t give in. Don’t want to know what or if I’ll find anything inside. I stagger into my old room instead. I put down my backpack, though I’d forgotten till now I was even carrying it, and let it slip down in front of me on the wooden floors. Was it on my back the whole ride? No clue. Doesn’t matter. My stuff is spread across the room in the usual chaos. I crawl through it on my knees. Layers of dust stick to my pants legs. I reach around randomly, grabbing clothes semi-intentionally that I want to take along and stuff them into the backpack. Then I push my mattress to the side and pry up a loose piece of wood flooring in the corner. Underneath is a bundle of bills I’ve set aside for emergencies. It’s not much, but it’s enough for a while. I could have taken it along last time, but I was in a trance and just wanted to get away after what I’d discovered and what I did. In the end, I take my decrepit laptop and cable and cram them between the stuff in the backpack. That’s everything I wanted to take care of here.