by Endre Farkas
“Okay, Coach.”
The coach signalled the referee at the next throw-in. There was applause as Tommy limped back onto the field, exaggerating his injury.
“Stay up,” Speedy said as he passed him. “It’ll force them to keep at least one guy near you, so it’ll be even back there.”
The half finished with Debrecen leading 1-0.
“What a fucking non-call,” Tito shouted and slammed his towel down. “Fuck. He swallowed his whistle.”
“What kind of fucking friendly is this?” Stanislaus yelled.
Coach Hus let the boys vent. “How is your ankle?” he asked Tommy.
“Tender, but I’ll be okay.” He leaned back and watched Ben unlace his cleat again.
“This is gonna hurt.” Before Tommy could say anything, Ben ripped off the tape.
“Shit!”
“This will freeze it for a while. I may have to do it once or twice during the game.”
The spray was cool on his skin. He stood and hesitantly put weight on it. The boys watched him flex and rotate his ankle. Soon the pain was minimal. “This is great.”
“The bruise and the pain are there, you just don’t feel it. Be careful,” Ben said, taping Tommy’s ankle again.
“Okay. Now we know. We have to forget the referee. It’s time for Canadian football,” the coach said. “Onside kickoff to start. Make them wonder.”
Tommy was in the centre circle with Speedy. Kostas, Tito and Luigi lined up on the far right. The Debrecen players looked at the lineup, unsure what was going on. Tommy slipped the ball over to Speedy, who lofted a pass about ten yards, into the cluster of players on the right side. Tito and Kostas criss-crossed like offensive linemen to confuse the defence and to block anyone from getting to Luigi, who sent a sharp pass back to Tommy, who remained at centre. Speedy took off downfield to the opposite wing. Stanislaus followed Speedy, who had picked up Tommy’s lead. Speedy dropped the ball back to Stanislaus, who slipped a pass to Archie, who slid it to Schmutz, who blasted a bomb from the sixteen-yard. Gabi leaped and barely managed to push it over the crossbar. The Debrecen players were yelling at each other. Tommy stood next to Gabi as they lined up for the corner.
“How are you?” Gabi asked. Tommy winked.
Gabi handled the corner easily and cleared the zone with a strong kick. But the boys were back to defend. Debrecen played a more cautious game now. They slowed it down. The Internationals had momentum, though they rarely got too deep. This gave Tommy a chance to get strength back in his ankle and control the game a little more. Instead of running and putting pressure on his ankle, he fed the halves, who did most of the running. Archie, Luigi and Schmutz were tireless. Gabi was busier than Derek.
There were about ten minutes left in the game. The freezing was wearing off. He stopped by the sideline so Ben could spray it again. “Trap two,” Coach Hus yelled. “Trap two.”
Tommy dropped the ball back to Schmutz, who dropped it back to Aggie.
Aggie passed it back to Derek, Derek to Ivan, Ivan back to Derek, who made like he was going to kick it upfield but rolled it to Tito. Debrecen players moved into the Internationals’ zone, thinking that the Canadians were settling for a respectable 1-0 loss. Debrecen pushed like they needed more.
Archie slipped behind their centre half, who was guarding Speedy. Speedy took off toward Debrecen’s net. The centre half guarding him backed up to keep pace with Speedy but was trapped by Archie. Speedy had the ball on Debrecen’s sixteen-yard line. Gabi came out to cut down the angle. He remembered what happened the last time and looked for Archie. Tommy had limped to the opposite side. Speedy stopped and arced a pass toward him. Tommy took off and left his defender flatfooted. He remembered practising his header against Gabi and knew that Gabi would try to fist it off his head. They both jumped at the same time. Instead of heading it into Gabi’s fists, he arched it over them.
Up in the air, they became one. Tommy remembered how scared he felt when they were ripped apart by the secret police on the train. Here in mid-air, suspended, away from their reach, Tommy felt rejoined.
A groan erupted in the stadium.
Tommy and Gabi came crashing down together. Lying on their backs, they were laughing. The boys came yelling and piling on top of them. Gabi squeezed Tommy’s hand and crawled out from under the pileup.
The referee was furiously blowing his whistle. The players unpiled and headed back toward the kickoff circle. The referee continued blowing his whistle and was pointing to the spot beside Gabi.
“Goalie interference,” he yelled, awarding a free kick to Debrecen. The boys didn’t understand. When Tommy told them, they went berserk. They yelled at the referee in English, Italian, Greek, Portuguese, Polish, Russian. There was even cursing in Hungarian from the stands. Tommy said nothing. He and Gabi looked at each other.
The referee stood his ground, like a statue pointing toward the Canadian net.
Gabi placed the ball for the free kick. He backed up, took a run at it, stopped, turned and kicked the ball into his own net.
There was a collective gasp from the fans before a deafening silence descended on the stadium.
Gabi’s teammates were yelling at him as he stood with his hands on his hips eyeing the referee. The referee hesitated, not sure what to do. Finally, he blew the whistle and pointed to the faceoff circle. The Debrecen coach was yelling at Gabi and signalling him off. He nodded to Tommy and slowly walked off the field. There were loud boos, but Tommy also made out some applause. He started to clap. The rest of the Internationals joined in.
Coach Hus signalled Tommy out of the game. Tommy stared at the coach. He didn’t want to leave. “Now!” Coach Hus yelled.
Coach Hus sat next to him. “Do you understand?”
Tommy said nothing. He didn’t look at the coach. “You can’t be in with your cousin out,” he said and patted him on the back. Tommy sat and watched the ball being kicked, passed, headed and caught. It was blur, played in silence until the final whistle blew.
The crowd stood as the two teams lined up at centre field and waved. There was applause but it was sparse and uncertain, as if the fans were waiting for instructions.
The players on both teams faced each other and shook hands. The referee had disappeared. Tommy searched for Gabi. He wasn’t there either.
As he shook Tommy’s hand, Könyves said under his breath, “Gabi said that he will meet you in Békes. Good game, Puskás,” he added.
The freezing was wearing off again. Pain radiated up his leg. He limped off the field, pausing at the lip of the tunnel. He turned and watched the stadium empty.
The boys were whooping and hollering, tossing their jerseys at each other, but Tommy sat motionless. Speedy knelt in front him and began to unlace his cleats. Carefully he rolled down Tommy’s socks and slipped off his shin pads. He looked up at Tommy, smiled and ripped off the tape.
“Fuck!”
It felt like a million shards of glass were embedded in his body. Tommy winced and bit his lip. Tears crept from the corners of his eyes. He was laughing.
Mr. Luxton entered the dressing room.
“Quiet down,” Coach Hus shouted.
“Boys, you played a wonderful game. I congratulate you all, both on your play and sportsmanship.” He smiled at Tommy and Speedy. “You did yourself and Canada proud. Now, I know that you were supposed to be having an official farewell supper with the Debrecen team at the Matyas Pince restaurant tonight but that was cancelled. They will not be joining you. I am sure that you understand.”
He glanced at Coach Hus and left. Coach Hus followed him out.
Tommy and Speedy looked at each other without saying anything. Tommy hobbled to the shower. He turned the hot knob full blast and raised his head to meet the jet spray. He cried as the scalding water cleansed him.
Tommy dressed slowly. He was the last to leave. He to
ok one final look around the dressing room. “Apu, we did it! Szerbusz,” he said, quietly closing the door behind him.
48
The Matyas Pince was located a block from the shores of the Danube. “It’s world famous,” Mr. Papp had told him during one of his Hungarian history lectures. “It was built in 1904. Originally it was a beer house. In 1947, during the first beer festival in Budapest, it served 3,050 litres of beer.”
“Maybe we will break that record when we celebrate our victories,” Tommy joked.
“Good luck.” Mr. Papp smiled.
Tommy wasn’t sure if he had been being sarcastic. Probably. Well, they had come close.
Inside the restaurant, sturdy wooden pillars supported high fresco ceilings. From them hung round soccer-ball-sized globes, forever suspended in the air waiting to be headed. The long solid tables and heavy wooden chairs added to the medieval banquet hall feel. He caressed the insignia on his maroon jacket. He was one of the Knights who had gathered here to celebrate their almost victory.
“Not like your uncle’s bodega, eh?” Schmutz said to Speedy as they took in the size of the place.
“Sí. It sure is bigger.”
“But it doesn’t have Marianne dancing,” Tommy said.
Young waiters, wearing white shirts, black vests and ankle length white aprons stood like an honour guard ready to lead them to one of the long tables. The other, facing them, remained empty.
The waiters brought water and menus and pointed to the back of them, where the offerings and prices were translated into English and U.S. dollars.
“That’s smart,” Speedy said.
“Let me put it to you this way,” Archie said. “They may be communists, but they’re not stupid communists. They want our dirty capitalist dollars.”
“You and your political analysis. Give it a rest,” Schmutz said.
“Everything is political. We are political animals,” Archie shot back.
“I’m not a political animal, I’m a hungry animal,” Schmutz said, looking over the menu.
“Would he have done it if you weren’t his cousin?” Speedy asked.
“I’ve been thinking about that, too. Would you?”
“Honestly, I don’t know. Maybe in a friendly, but in a final for the championship, I’m not sure.”
“I wouldn’t have,” Schmutz said. “A game is for winning.”
“But he did the right thing,” Tommy said.
“He did a brave, honourable thing. He went against the system and the ruling class. Therefore, he did the wrong thing,” Archie chimed in.
“What ruling class are you talking about? This is communism,” Derek said from across the table. “Communism is about the dictatorship of the proletariat.”
“Even they must have a ruling class,” Archie countered. “The ref represents the overseer for the ruling class and so what the ref did was right. Your cousin did the wrong thing. In dictatorships, even in the proletariat kind, his actions can have serious consequences.”
“What do you mean by serious?” Tommy asked.
Archie leaned over. “If you had done what he did back home, you might have been called stupid by those who believe winning is the only thing that matters.” He looked at Schmutz. “Or you might be praised for doing the honourable thing. Here doing the right thing, especially so publicly, is the wrong thing; it might encourage others to do so as well. That’s dangerous to the system. So, they have to nip it in the bud. This will probably affect him for the rest of his life.”
“Enough with that politics. Here comes the vino,” Schmutz shouted as the waiters appeared with bottles of wine.
Speedy picked up one of the bottles. “What’s Bika Vér?”
Tommy laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“It’s perfect for you, Speedy. It’s Bull’s Blood.”
Coach Hus stood up and clinked his knife on his wineglass. The room quieted down. “I’m proud of you guys,” he began before choking up and stopping mid-thought. “Salut!” he said quietly. He took a sip and sat down.
Surprising himself, Tommy stood up. “On behalf of the team, I would like to thank Coach Hus for his dedication, for bringing out the best in us. He’s not only a great coach but also a great teacher. He reminded us that play is an essential part of the game. He taught us to use our individual strengths to play together and make us a championship team. And doing the right thing is the most important thing. To Coach Hus. Thank you.”
“To Coach Hus,” the boys toasted.
“I want to say one last thing. Even though they’re not here, I want to toast the players of the University of Debrecen.” Tommy raised his glass and pointed to the empty table. The boys rose and did the same.
Tommy hadn’t realized how hungry he was until the heaping plate of beef goulash with gnocchi arrived and he took that first mouthful. Like his father, he closed his eyes to savour it, the Wolfstein way.
It was Mr. Papp who had suggested, or rather had insisted, that Tommy order the goulash once he found out where the team was going to have its last meal. He had somehow gotten hold of the team’s agenda from a connection in the Hungarian consulate.
“You must. It is our national dish and the chef at Matyas Pince is its master. His seasoning of caraway and thyme is delicate, and the tenderness of the beef is unmatched. I have it every time I am in Budapest.” Tommy couldn’t get enough of it.
Gypsy musicians wearing vests embroidered with elaborate flower designs took to the stage. Three men with slicked-down brilliant black hair and immaculately trimmed mustaches bowed to them.
Tommy poked Speedy. “Hungarian Gitanos.”
Wistful notes rose from the violin. Like sparrows from branches, one after another they took flight to sing their songs to a beloved far away. Marianne would have loved this; she would have gotten up and danced to the music. He wondered what she was up to. Was she missing him? He hoped so, but knowing her, he wasn’t sure. He hoped she wasn’t hanging out with that bastard poet.
“Is all your Gypsy music so depressing?” Schmutz asked after the second lament.
“You’re an ignorant Danish meatball,” Speedy shouted back. “They’re cante jondos.”
Derek laughed. “What’s that? Spanish bullshit?”
Fuelled by their performance and Bull’s Blood, the Sir Internationals’ trash talk began. Ivan called Stanislaus Sir Limp Sausage, who called Kostas Sir Screw Kebob, who called Luigi Sir Thin Linguini, who called Archie Sir Soft Bananas. On it went, a toast after each name until everyone had been knighted. Even Coach Hus got dubbed Sir Huizinga Burger.
Tommy, Sir Goulash Puskás, signalled for the violinist to come over. He handed him a hundred-forint bill and asked him to play the “Internationale.” The Gypsy looked at him as though he was crazy. He wasn’t. He was slightly drunk and ridiculously happy and sad. It was the team’s last night in Hungary.
49
The boys and their bags crowded the dorm lounge as they waited for the bus to take them to the airport. Tommy was making the rounds, shaking hands with each of the guys.
“I can’t find anything in this crazy-language paper,” Schmutz said, waving the Hungarian People’s Sports Daily. “Can you?” He shoved it at Tommy.
Tommy leafed through. Honvéd, his old favourite team, was near the bottom of the standings. He wished he could see them play but they were out of town. Maybe it was just as well. It was better to hold on to the glory team of old. The good old days, he thought.
“Here it is.” Tommy pointed to a small column at the back of the paper. “It says that a friendly game was played between us and Debrecen. Both teams displayed the spirit of friendship. The game ended in a 1-1 tie.”
“That’s it?” Agostino asked.
“That sucks,” Schmutz said.
“Shit, the game would be front-page news in The Gazette.�
� Derek said. “Your cousin’s action would be national news.”
“Let me put it to you guys this way. It is national news here, that’s why it’s hidden like that,” Archie said.
Tommy hoped Gabi was okay.
“Bus time, boys,” announced Coach Hus.
Tommy clasped Speedy. They nodded to each other. “Say hi to Marianne.”
“Will do and thanks. By the way, how does the story end?”
“What story?”
“The story you started the other night.”
“I’ll tell you when I get back.”
“Loco in the coco,” he said and punched Tommy on the arm. “Okay, amigo. See you soon.”
Coach Hus took Tommy aside. “Enjoy yourself, and take care of that ankle.” Lowering his voice, he said, “Be careful.”
“Yeah, I will. Thanks, Coach.”
Tommy watched the bus turn the corner and disappear. He asked the concierge to call him a taxi. The concierge waited with him. Tommy didn’t tip him. He was probably a stoolie. Let the cops pay him. He wasn’t going to be a paying mouse.
The taxi wove through the streets of Pest. Tommy didn’t know his way around but felt that he was being taken for a ride. “Where are we?” he asked when the taxi stopped at a light.
“Dohany Street.”
Tommy looked around. “I’ll get out here.”
“This isn’t the train station.”
“I know.”
He opened the door before the light changed, grabbed his suitcase and paid. Dohany Street Synagogue was still impressive. He recognized the onion domes, the huge Ten Commandment tablets on top and the massive door that had opened when his father had said his Jewish name. He had a couple of hours before the train to Békes.
Inside, the towering ceilings and stained glass windows overwhelmed him. He strolled past the pews, remembering his last time here. He had turned eight in the synagogue. They had gone there for shelter after they fled the safe house where he had seen indoor plumbing for the first time, where he had been woken by the rumbling sound of a Russian tank and had seen the tank blown up by kids younger than he was now, where the explosions shattered windows and where he got a face full of glass slivers.