Philipp Winkler - Hooligan

Heiko Kolbe, the narrator of this novel, is torn between feelings of obligation for his family and for the surrogate family he has found in the hooligan scene affiliated with his local professional Fussball club, Hannover 96. The “96” in the name refers to the year the club was established, 1896. Football , in its various translations, is how the rest of the world refers to what Americans call “soccer.” In this book, to better reflect Heiko’s Fussball universe, we’ve retained the term closest to the one he would use in German.

One difference between European professional football and the franchise model of North American soccer is the possibility of relegation. Depending on the size of the league, the two or three teams with the worst record are relegated, or sent down, to a lower league, and are replaced by teams ascending from that league. This system enhances the stakes for a team’s performance. Several of the novel’s most exciting scenes revolve around the possibility of Hannover 96 moving up or down.

Fans like Heiko and his friends, who avidly follow a team despite its bouncing between the highest league and lower tiers, are the opposite of fair-weather fans. The most faithful fans might even place a higher priority on attending a match between their club’s “U23” reserve team, comprised of players only under the age of twenty-three, than on the commercialized games of the main team. It’s also common to follow both the main pro club like Hannover and a local small-town team, such as TSV Luthe, based near Hannover, as Heiko and his friends do.

Heiko’s world is peppered with references to past and current Hannover players, such as the former goalies Sievers and Robert Enke, the coach Michael Lorkowski, or other stars from the 2000s like Bernd Schneider, Ansgar Brinkmann, and Roberto Carlos.

Hannover 96 and Eintracht Braunschweig are archrivals in this book and in real life. Because of the vagaries of success and league structure, some archrivals seldom meet on the field except in a cup match.

Finally, the ultra fan movement has been relatively diverse and includes groups of both right-wing and left-wing ideologies. While most ultras are primarily focused on supporting their local team, hooligans are mostly interested in organizing and carrying out brawls with other hooligans. Heiko and his friends Kai, Ulf, and Jojo, gradually move up within the Hannover hooligan scene. Although there is some overlap between the gang and the right-leaning Wotan Gym run by Heiko’s uncle, Axel, it would be a mistake to equate the hooligans with a right-wing gang. However, Axel rules the group with an iron fist. Although Hooligan might at first glance seem to be just a novel about a crazy sports fan, it is worth noting that identifying with a team with a history stretching back more than one hundred years—outlasting numerous forms of political organization and spanning two world wars—offers a stable kind of tradition. It is natural that the book’s working-class protagonists gravitate toward teams like Hannover 96.

I warm my new mouth guard between my palms. Use my fingers to rotate it and squeeze it a little. It’s what I do before each fight. The plastic holds firm, with just a small amount of give. It’s a fabulous piece. You almost can’t get any better. Specially made by the dental technician. Not one of those mass-produced cheapo jobs you can toss after two weeks ’cause the edges cut into your gums. Or you constantly want to gag from the horrible fit and the chemical smell of the plastic. By now, almost all of us have one of these mouth guards, except Jojo with his paltry janitor’s wages. Kai, who always has to have the finest shit. Ulf has no problem paying for it. Tomek, Töller. And some of our boys who have the right jobs. Uncle Axel, of course. He’s the one who discovered the dental technician a couple years ago. Specializes in contact sports and takes care of martial artists all over Germany. I hear the people from Frankfurt go to him and some of the boys from the East. From Dresden and Halle, Zwickau. Probably have to lay out their whole month’s check from the government, I think, and run the tips of my fingers over the ventilation holes.

“Hey, Heiko!” Kai pokes me in the side. “Your phone.” The knock-off phone buzzes between us on the seat. I reach for it, my fingers shaking. My uncle watches me in the side mirror. I press the button with the green symbol.

“Where are you? We’re waiting,” the voice of the guy from Cologne I organized the match with comes through the phone. I roll down the window so I can see better, look for any points of reference.

“We’re on highway B55 near Olpe. Should be right there.”

“Hit Desert Road. Turn right off the second traffic circle. On Bratzkopf, straight till you’ve passed the city limits. Woods on the left. Can’t miss it.”

Before he hangs up, I remind him one more time about our deal. Fifteen men on each side. Then I hang up.

“Well?” Axel asks without turning around. He’s still watching me in the side mirror. Despite the sun’s reflection, I can recognize his piercing gaze. How he’s scrutinizing me closely. I pass along the directions and stress that I reminded the guy about the agreement.

“I heard,” he says and turns to Hinkel, who’s at the wheel as usual. Axel repeats the directions. As if Hinkel didn’t hear me, or Hinkel could only drive that way if the directions come from him. I notice how Kai is looking at me from the side. The corners of his mouth spread. In solidarity. If I look at him now, he’s probably rolling his eyes. Telling me, fucking hell, what a control freak. Something like that. But I don’t react, just see whether Hinkel takes the right turn. He grunts, which probably means he understood. Hinkel grips the wheel, his meatloaf hand at twelve o’clock. Beads of sweat are trapped in the long hairs on the back and glitter in the sun. It looks like a comb-over in the wrong place. He lets the other hand dangle out the window.

Tomek, sitting on Kai’s left, scrolls through his phone with disinterest. It’s an East Bloc thing. Always the same Slavic face. Good mood or bad. You can’t tell the difference. He’d probably have the same expression if he won the lottery. It wouldn’t be surprising if he’s pissed off. After all, Kai called shotgun before him. Probably doesn’t even know it. Now he has to sit exactly where Jojo bled all over with his destroyed nose. Jojo’s snorter really suffered. And the seat padding too. And besides, that’s clearly the spot you don’t want to sit on hot days. Behind Hinkel. Even with the window open.

Kai lifts his ass an inch above the seat and slips his powder tin from the back pocket of his Hollister jeans. He unscrews the lid and shovels a pile of blow onto his thumb, holding it under one nostril then the other, snorting. The car is jostling quite a bit, but he manages not to lose any. He throws his head back. His gelled boxer haircut scratches over the greasy seat cover. He holds out the tin for me.

“Want some? Maybe then you won’t fill your pants.” He grins. I grin back and say, “Better to have your pants full than your nose, Ms. Winehouse.” He laughs. It’s been quite a while since I last took something. He extends his middle finger while screwing the lid back on. My uncle clears his throat loudly. Kai shrugs his shoulders and deposits the tin back in his jeans. He knows very well Axel can’t stand it when we mess up our heads with something before a match. Even stuff like coke, which clears your brain. But that’s one thing even Uncle Axel can’t get from people. That’s why he usually lets it slide, so long as no one gets carried away. Besides, Axel’s been known to sample the goods. A lot of people need it for their nerves. Well, that or just ’cause they’re junkies. But Axel doesn’t bring along anyone who can’t get a grip. At least not to the important matches. Like today. When it’s really about representing Hannover with honor. Kai may be a heavy hitter when it comes to blow, but he’s too good to leave home. Against him all those pumped-up boys seem as mobile as bulldozers. And thanks to me, he holds back a bit before the matches. Besides, my uncle knows very well he couldn’t always count on me if he left Kai on the bench. The yellow city limit sign from Olpe flies by the passenger side window of the T5 VW van. I lean forward, my face between Hinkel and my uncle.