“I’m on the B-team,” he said.
I think it took Kai and Ulf just as long as it did me to process what we were seeing. When the realization wound its way through our drug-affected brains and arrived, we jumped up together and ran over to the three Seidels, screaming with joy and yelling, “96!” We gave each other high fives and fist bumps and grabbed our heads because we simply couldn’t believe it. One of us, a true Red. A player for Hannover 96. That’s the last thing I can remember about that day. And the two-day hangover that followed.
I think about going home but put it off till evening. Arnim can clean up all that crap himself. I don’t need to deal with wiping up animal blood. Besides, I’m honestly a little afraid of coming home and finding Poborsky or Bigfoot’s cage empty. Not that either of those killers is near and dear to me or anything. But I don’t want them to pass into the sweet hereafter either. At least not that way. I take the next bus to Luthe. Jojo called us in the morning and asked if we’d like to finally visit him at practice. Kai declined. He’d made a date with some girl from class to do a study group for the upcoming test. Of course, study group is just personal code for fuck buddy. But she doesn’t know that yet. Visiting Jojo is clearly the better alternative for me. The other would be having to listen to Arnim recount last night’s events.
The field belonging to the TSV Luthe field team is located behind the village elementary school, where Jojo and Joel went. It’s bordered by tall, thin trees that I can already see from far away. The tips of their crowns, bare by now, bend from the gusts. Then a high kicked ball appears in front of them. It flies straight up, remains almost motionless in the air for a second, and is blown away by the wind. I can already see Jojo as I step onto the checkered border surrounding the field. Hands forming a megaphone around his mouth and shouting, “On the ground! Try to keep it on the ground!”
He’s watching over a training match. Jerseys against vests. Jojo’s wearing his black-and-blue coaching outfit. He’s letting his hair grow again. Dressed in his gear, from the back you could almost mistake him for the coaching legend Klaus Toppmöller. If the hair was a little longer and gray at some point, the illusion would be perfect. But, when it comes to facial feature, he more resembles Peter Neururer, without the stache. He also has such a good-natured face with a funny beak. I position myself slightly behind the coaching bench and watch a bit. Fathers and mothers are leaning against the barrier that separates the spectators from the field. Mostly fathers. Two of them are standing not too far away. Just the sight of them gives me the creeps. Outdoorsy jackets. Khaki trousers, and breathable middle-age sneakers. I don’t care much about appearances, but here it’s the connection between the, well, you could almost call it a uniform, and what the douchebags trash talk. While their progeny hump it across the field, they just lean back and play a round of “who’s more successful.” Whose paycheck is plumper, whose vacations are more luxurious, who was able to negotiate a better price with the contractor, raise the roof on the garage so the new, unnecessary family SUV fits even if the old station wagon would have done the job. I’d like to go over there right now and give both of them one helluva bitch slap. Not that either has the slightest clue about football. It’s all just about your own brat’s an undiscovered Lionel Messi and, oh, of course, so fantastic in school, straight As in math. What a bunch of hypocrites! And wondering why that uppity little Turk doesn’t pass the ball, and Junior could have done it with his eyes closed. But he’s already expending all his energy running straight ahead. And then Sonny was even fouled! That was a foul! Coach! Why didn’t he see that?! And did you know that little daughter started dressage? A true talent when it comes to riding, the teacher says. I’d like to go up to that prick and say, “Boy, are you sure the teacher meant horse skills and isn’t just playing grab-ass with your daughter in the stables?”
That’d be a little harsh. But I’d sure like to give those uptight weekend warriors a bitch slap.
“Hey, you old motherfucker!” I yell, and cup my hands around my mouth like Jojo.
Irritated, he turns around. I wink and smile. He hustles over to me.
“Heiko, dude. Are you smashed?! You can’t yell stuff like that around here.”
I make a dismissive gesture.
“Don’t get your knickers in a twist ’cause of those fags over there.” We shake hands. “How’s it going? Are you bossing around the little shits?”
I must have busted some dam, ’cause Jojo immediately let loose a flood of words. Tomorrow’s an important match, the boys are really making an effort, just have to keep the balls down, a couple talents here. Blah blah blah.
“Yeah,” I say, and point to the field, “that little guy there. The Turk— ”
“Kurd,” Jojo corrects me.
“Kurd. Sorry. He’s really got something. Tight dribbling. Uses his body well, and seems to have a good eye for the other players.”
As if to confirm what I just said, the kid gets past the fullback down the outside with an expert stepover and crosses low into the area, so that all his teammate has to do is stick a foot out and it’s in the back of the net.
“Yeah, I think Erbil might be able to make something of himself,” Jojo says and crosses his arms like a pundit.
“Great this is going well, man,” I say and pat Jojo on the back. He looks attentively at his boys.
“By the way. National team’s on Tuesday. Friendly against Slovakia.”
“Yeah?”
No one gives a fuck about the Mannschaft. Except when the Euros or World Cup is on. Then the daddies pull their German flags out of the closet and those motherfuckers clip them onto their windshields.
“Was at Kai’s last night—”
“Didn’t sleep much, huh?”
“Right. Can you see it?”
“You look like you crawled out of an asshole,” Jojo whispers to me.
“Sure, fuck it. At any rate. Kai’d heard something from the boys in Hamburg. Rumor has it that the Slovakians floated a trial balloon, see if anything might work out.”
“Where?” he asks.
“Leipzig. Tickets have already been ordered.”
“You serious?”
“Four tickets. You and Ulf, and me, of course.”
Jojo’s eyes bug: “Ulf?”
“Yep. Even him. Talked to him on the phone. But he said he’d look for a bar after the match and wait for us there.”
“Didn’t you have a blow-up with him? He told me you really flew off the handle when he said Saskia didn’t want him to go to the matches anymore and all that.”
I offer him a cigarette. He declines, waving the hand poking out from under his crossed arms. I light one.
“Yeah, my God. It’s completely understandable. But no way it’s serious. He’ll feel the itch soon enough.”
“If that’s what you think.”
“I do. Okay. You’re coming, right? Just a short-notice match. At least toss around a couple chairs or something. Also depends on how heavy the cop presence is.”
“Well, if you’ve already ordered tickets, then I can’t really say no, right?”
“Good man,” I say. “Besides…”—I think about what I actually want to say—“maybe it’ll do some good. I mean. Getting out of here for once. And we’ve never been to Leipzig either. Maybe we could make some connections with the people at Lok or Chemie. That’d be something. They’re supposed to have some really good people, those retards in the fan bloc.”
Jojo runs over to the touchline and screams, “Diagonal! Diagonal!”
Then he comes back and asks me if something’s up with me.
“Huh, something up? Don’t know what you’re getting at.”